



■* ,o 









^ /. 







»°^ 







^ 



*fc V V ^^ m *■ 









^ .*. 





^ ^ '- 













^ -imp* ** ^ »yjv^* «> ^, - 



0" 0'!% ^ 



^ 











** •« 






***** ° 




^: *°* 



l V~"V V^-'V" V*--^ 



ON OLD-WORLD 
HIGHWAYS 



By the Same Author 

British Highways and Byways from a 
Motor Car 

THIRD IMPRESSION 

WITH FORTY-EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS AND TWO MAPS 

Sixteen Reproductions in Color, and Thirty-two Duogravures 

320 Pages, 8vo, Decorated Cloth 

Price (Boxed), $3.00 



In Unfamiliar England With a Motor Car 

SECOND IMPRESSION 

WITH SIXTY-FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS AND TWO MAPS 

Sixteen Reproductions in Color and Forty-eight Duogravures 

400 Pages, 8vo, Decorated Cloth 

Price (Boxed), $3.00 



Three Wonderlands of the American West 

SECOND IMPRESSION 

WITH FORTY-EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS AND TWO MAPS 

Sixteen Reproductions in Color and Thirty-two Duogravures 

180 Pages, Tall 8vo, Decorated Cloth 

Price (Boxed) $3.00 Net 



L. C. PAGE & COMPANY 

BOSTON 



'"1^*" *& 




>';:; 


4 

f . # * ft > * 

.It 


y . v. ;.:■>'■ ■■■■■,- 


4 



>-G 



o © 

6 G 

ks 

^ G 

WE 

s 

o 



ON OLD-WORLD 
HIGHWAYS 



A Book of Motor Rambles in France and Germany and 

the Record of a Pilgrimage from Lands End 

to John 'Groats in Britain. 



BY THOS. D. MURPHY 

AUTHOR OF "THREE WONDERLANDS OF THE AMERICAN WEST,' 
"BRITISH HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS FROM A MOTOR CAR" 
AND "IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND WITH A MOTOR CAR." 



WITH SIXTEEN REPRODUCTIONS IN COLORS FROM ORIGINAL 

PAINTINGS BY EMINENT ARTISTS AND FORTY DUO- 

GRAVURES FROM PHOTOGRAPHS. ALSO MAPS 

SHOWING ROUTES OF AUTHOR. 




BOSTON 

L. C. PAGE & COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 
MDCCCCXIV 



.M85 



Copyright, 1914 

By L. C. Page & Company 

(incorporated) 



All rights reserved 
First Impression, January, 1914 



APR -I 1914 



&S 



i 

©CI.A871170 



Preface 

I know that of making books of travel there is 
no limit — they come from the press in a never-ending 
stream; but no one can say that any one of these is 
superfluous if it finds appreciative readers, even 
though they be but few. 

My chief excuse for the present volume is the 
success of my previous books of motor travel, which 
have run through several fair-sized editions. I have 
had many warmly appreciative letters concerning 
these from native Englishmen and the books were 
commended by the Royal Automobile Club Journal 
as accurate and readable. So I take it that my point 
of view from the wheel of a motor car interests some 
people, and I shall feel justified in writing such books 
so long as this is the case. 

I know that in some instances I have had to deal 
with hackneyed subjects; but I have striven for a 
different viewpoint and I hope I have contributed 
something worth while in describing even well- 
known places. On the other hand, I know that I 
have discovered many delightful nooks and corners 
in Britain that even the guide-books have overlooked. 



Besides, I am sure that books of travel have 
ample justification in the fact that travel itself is one 
of the greatest of educators and civilizers. It 
teaches us that we are not the only people — that 
wisdom shall not die with us alone. It shows us 
that in some things other people may do better than 
we are doing and it may enable us to avoid mis- 
takes that others make. In short, it widens our 
horizon and tones down our self-conceit — or it 
should do all of this if we keep ears and eyes open 
when abroad. 

I make no apology for the fact that the greater 
bulk of the present volume deals with the Mother- 
land, even if its title does not so indicate. Her 
romantic charm is as limitless as the sea that encir- 
cles her. Even now, after our long journeyjngs in 
every corner of the Island, I would not undertake 
to say to what extent we might still carry our ex- 
ploration in historic and picturesque Britain. Should 
one delight in ivy-covered castles, rambling 
old manors, ruined abbeys, romantic coun- 
try-seats, haunted houses, great cathedrals 
and storied churches past numbering, I 
know not where the limit may be. But 
I do know that the little party upon whose 
experiences this book is founded is still far from 
being satisfied after nearly twenty thousand miles 
of motoring in the Kingdom, and if I fail to make 
plain why we still think of the highways and byways 



of Britain with an undiminished longing, the fault 
is mine rather than that of my subject. 

In this book, as in my previous ones, the illustra- 
tions play a principal part. The color plates are 
from originals by distinguished artists and the photo- 
graphs have been carefully selected and perfectly 
reproduced. The maps will also be of assistance 
in following the text. I hope that these valuable 
adjuncts may make amends for the many literary 
shortcomings of my text. 

THOMAS D. MURPHY 
Red Oak, Iowa, January 1, 1914. 



CONTENTS 



Page 
I BOULOGNE TO ROUEN 1 

II THE CHATEAU DISTRICT 29 

III ORLEANS TO THE GERMAN BORDER 45 

IV COLMAR TO OBERAMMERGAU 59 

V BAVARIA AND THE RHINE 77 

VI THE CAPTAIN'S STORY 104 

VII A FLIGHT THROUGH THE NORTH 125 

VIII THE MOTHERLAND ONCE MORE 145 

IX OLD WHITBY 157 

X SCOTT COUNTRY AND HEART OF 

HIGHLANDS 178 

XI IN SUTHERLAND AND CAITHNESS 191 

XII DOWN THE GREAT GLEN 210 

XIII ALONG THE WEST COAST 224 

XIV ODD CORNERS OF LAKELAND 246 

XV WE DISCOVER DENBIGH 262 

XVI CONWAY 279 

XVII THE HARDY COUNTRY AND BERRY 

POMEROY 298 

XVIII POLPERRO AND THE SOUTH CORNISH 

COAST 320 

XIX LAND'S END TO LONDON 336 

XX THE ENGLISH AND THEIR INSTITUTIONS 355 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



COLOR PLATES 

Page 

THE MOUNTAIN MEADOWS, BAVARIAN TYROL 

Frontispiece i 

SUNSET IN TOURAINE 1 

WOODS IN BRITTANY 26^ 

PIER LANE, WHITBY 164 ^ 

HARVEST TIME, STRATHTAY 180 ^ 

A HIGHLAND LOCH 188 

ACKERGILL HARBOUR, CAITHNESS 204" 

GLEN APFRICK, NEAR INVERNESS 208 

THE GREAT GLEN, SUNSET 210 / 

"THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT" 236 * 

THE FALLEN GIANT— A HIGHLAND STUDY 240'/ 

CONWAY CASTLE, NORTH WALES 280 ^ 

"THE NEW ARRIVAL" 282 V^ 

KYNANCE COVE, CORNWALL 334 u 

SUNSET NEAR LAND'S END, CORNWALL 336 ^ 

"A DISTANT VIEW OF THE TOWERS OF , 

WINDSOR" 355 / 

DUOGRAVURES 

ST. LO FROM THE RIVER 18 "^ 

A STREET IN ST. MALO 24 v/ 

CHENONCEAUX— THE ORIENTAL FRONT 32 

AMBOISE FROM ACROSS THE LOIRE 34 

GRAND STAIRWAY OF FRANCIS I. AT BLOIS 36 

PORT DU CROUX— A MEDIEVAL WATCH-TOWER 

AT NEVERS 46 

CASTLE AT FUSSEN 66 V 



OBERAMMERGAU 70 v 

ULM AND THE CATHEDRAL 82 

GOETHE'S HOUSE— FRANKFORT 86 ^ 

BINGEN ON THE RHINE t 88 

CASTLE RHEINSTEIN 90 

EHRENFELS ON THE RHINE 92 \/ 

RUINS OF CASTLE RHEINFELS 94 

LUXEMBURG — GENERAL VIEW 102 

ST. WULFRAM'S CHURCH, GRANTHAM 150 

OLD PEEL TOWER AT DARNICK NEAR 

ABBOTSFORD 178 ^ 

HOTEL, JOHN O'GROATS '. 200 V 

URQUHART CASTLE, LOCH NESS 214 

THE MACDONALD MONUMENT, GLENCOE 220 

"McCAIG'S FOLLY," OBAN 224 

GLENLUCE ABBEY 242 

SWEETHEART ABBEY 244 

WORDSWORTH'S BIRTHPLACE, COCKERMOUTH 250 

CALDER ABBEY, CUMBERLAND 252 ^ 

KENDAL CASTLE ^258 

KENDAL PARISH CHURCH 260* 

DENBIGH CASTLE— THE ENTRANCE AND KEEP 266 

ST. HILARY'S CHURCH, DENBIGH 272 

GATE TOWERS RHUDDLAN CASTLE, NORTH WALES. 276 
PLAS MAWR, CONWAY, HOME OF ROYAL CAMBRIAN 

ACADEMY 284 V 

INNER COURT, PLAS MAWR, CONWAY 286 

CONWAY CASTLE— THE OUTER WALL 292 

BERRY POMEROY CASTLE, ENTRANCE TOWERS 312 

BERRY POMEROY— WALL OF INNER COURT 316 

A STREET IN EAST LOOE— CORNWALL 322 

POLPERRO, CORNWALL — LOOKING TOWARD 

THE SEA 324 

LANSALLOS CHURCH, POLPERRO 326 

A STREET IN FOWEY, CORNWALL 330 

PROBUS CHURCH TOWER, CORNWALL 332 



MAPS 



FRANCE AND GERMANY 380 

ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND 388 



Through Summer France 

and 

The Fatherland 




PS 



55 .S 

P be 



On Old-World Highways 
I 

BOULOGNE TO ROUEN 

Our three summer pilgrimages in Britain have 
left few unexplored corners in the tight little island 
— we are thinking of new worlds to conquer. 
Beyond the narrow channel the green hills of 
France offer the nearest and most attractive field. 
Certainly it is the most accessible of foreign coun- 
tries for the motorist in England and every year 
increasing numbers of English-speaking tourists 
are seen in the neighboring republic. The service 
of the Royal Automobile Club, with its usual 
enterprise and thoroughness, leaves little to be de- 
sired in arranging the details of a trip and sup- 
plies complete information as to route. An asso- 
ciate membership was accorded me on behalf of 
the Automobile Club of America, whose card I 
presented and which serves an American many use- 
ful ends in European motordom. Mr. Maroney, 
the genial touring secretary, at once interested him- 
self in our proposed tour. He undertook to out- 

1 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

line a route, to arrange for transportation of our 
car across the Channel, to provide for duties and 
licenses and, lastly, to secure a courier-guide familiar 
with the countries we proposed to invade and pro- 
ficient in the French and German languages. The 
necessary guide-books and road-maps are carried in 
stock by the club and the only charge made is for 
these. Our proposed route was traced on the map, 
a typewritten list of towns and distances was made 
and a day or two later I was advised that a guide 
had been engaged. Mr Maroney expressed regret 
that the young men who serve the club regularly 
in this capacity were already employed, but he had 
investigated the man secured for us and found him 
competent and reliable. 

"Still/' said Mr. Maroney with characteristic 
British caution, "we would feel better satisfied with 
one of our own men on the job; but it is the best 
we can do for you under the circumstances." 

We learned that our guide was a young English- 
man of good family, at present in somewhat 
straitened circumstances, which made him willing 
to accept any position for which his talents might 
fit him. He had previously piloted motor parties 
through France and Italy and spoke four languages 
with perfect fluency. He had done a lot of knock- 
ing about, having recently been in a shipwreck off 

2 



BOULOGNE TO ROUEiNI 

the coast of South America and having held a cap- 
tain's commission in the South African War. We 
therefore called him "the Captain," and I may as 
well adopt that designation in referring to him in 
these pages, since his real name would interest no 
one. He was able to drive the car and declared 
willingness to do a chauffeur's part in caring for 
it. The only doubt expressed by Mr. Maroney 
was that the Captain might "forget his place" — 
that of a servant — and before long consider himself 
a member of our party, and with characteristic 
frankness the touring secretary cautioned our guide 
in my presence against any such presumption. 

It is a fine May afternoon when we drive from 
London to Folkestone to be on hand in time to 
attend to the formalities for crossing the Channel on 
the following day. Police traps, we are warned, 
abound along the road and we proceed quite soberly, 
taking some four hours for the seventy-five miles 
including the slow work of getting out of London. 
The Royal Pavilion Hotel on low ground near the 
docks is strictly first-class and its rates prove more 
moderate than we found at its competitors on the 
cliff. 

Our car is left at the dock, arrangements for its 
transport having been made beforehand by the 
Royal Automobile Club; but we saunter down in 

a 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

the morning to see it loaded. We need not worry 
about this, for it goes "at the company's risk," a 
provision which costs us ten shillings extra. It is 
pushed upon a large platform and a steam crane 
soon swings it high in the air preparatory to deposit- 
ing it on the steamer deck. 

"She's an airship now," said an old salt as the 
car reached its highest point. "We did fetch over 
a sure-enough airship last week — belonged to that 
fellow Paulhan and he's a decentish chap, too; 
you'd never think he was a Frenchman!" — which 
would seem to indicate that the entente cordiale had 
not entirely cleared away prejudice from the 
mind of our sailor-friend. 

Our crossing was as comfortable as any Channel 
crossing could be — which in our case is not saying 
much, for that green, rushing streak of salt water, 
the English Channel, always gives us a squeamish 
feeling, no matter how "smooth" it may be. We 
are only too glad to get on terra firma in Boulogne 
and to see our car almost immediately swung to 
the dock. 

I had read in a recently published book by a 
motor tourist of the dreadful ordeal he underwent 
in securing his license to drive; a stern official sat 
beside him and put him through all his paces to 
ascertain if he was competent to pilot a car in 

4 



BOULOGNE TO ROUEN1 

France. I was expecting to be compelled to give 
a similar exhibit, when the Captain came out of 
the station with driving licenses for both himself and 
me and announced that we would be ready to 
proceed as soon as he attached a pair of very indis- 
tinct number plates. 

"But the examination 'pour competence/ ' I 
said. 

"O," he replied, I just explained to his nobs 
that we were in a great hurry and couldn't wait for 
an examination — and a five-franc piece did the 
rest." A piece of diplomacy which no doubt left 
the honest official feeling happier than if I had given 
him a joy-ride over the cobbles of Boulogne. 

Filling our tank with "essence," which we learn, 
after translating some jargon concerning "litres" and 
"francs," will cost about thirty-five cents per gallon 
— we strike out on the road to Montreuil. It proves 
a typical French highway and our first impressions 
are confirmed later on. The road is broad, with 
perfect contour and easy grades, running straight 
away for miles — or should I say kilometers? — and 
showing every evidence of engineering skill and care- 
ful construction. But it is old-fashioned macadam 
without any binding material. The motor car has 
torn up the surface and scattered it in loose dust 
which rises in clouds from our wheels or has been 

5 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

swept away by the wind, leaving the roadbed bare 
but rough and jagged — a perfect grindstone on 
rubber tires. The same description applies to nearly 
all the roads we traversed in France, and no doubt 
the vast preponderance of them are still in the same 
state or worse. A movement for re-surfacing the 
main highways is now in progress and in a few 
years France will again be at the front, though at 
this time she is far behind England in the matter 
of modern automobile roads. The long straight 
stretches and the absence of police traps in the 
country make fast time possible — if one is willing 
to pay the tire bill. Thirty miles an hour is an easy 
jog and though we left Boulogne after three, we find 
we have covered one hundred and ten miles at night- 
fall, including a stop for luncheon. At Montreuil 
we strike the first and only serious grade, a long, 
steep hill up which winds the cobble-paved main 
street of the town — our first experience with the 
cobble pavement of the provincial towns, of which 
more anon. 

A few miles beyond Montreuil the Captain steers 
us into a narrow byroad which leads into the quaint 
little fisher town of Berck-sur-Mer and, indeed, the 
much-abused "quaint" is not misapplied here. The 
old buildings straggle along the single street, quite 
devoid of any touch of the picturesque and thronged 

6 



BOULOGNE TO ROUEiN 

by people of all degrees. We see many queer 
four-wheeled vehicles — not much larger than toy 
wagons — drawn by ponies and donkeys, the drivers 
lying at full length on their backs, staring at the 
sky or asleep, their motive power wandering along 
at its own sweet will. It is indeed ridiculous to 
see full-grown men riding in such a primitive fashion, 
but the sight is not unusual. We meet a troop of 
prawn fishers coming in from the sea — as miserable 
specimens of humanity as we ever beheld — ragged, 
bedraggled, bare-headed and bare-footed creatures; 
many old women among them, prancing along like 
animated rag-bags. 

Swinging back into the main highway, we soon 
reach Abbeville, whose roughly paved streets wind 
between bare, unattractive buildings. In places 
malodorous streams run along the streets — practically 
open sewers, if the smell is any indication. Abbe- 
ville affords an example of the terrible cobblestone 
pavement that we found in nearly all French cities 
of the second class. The round, uneven stones — in 
the States we call them "niggerheads" — have prob- 
ably lain undisturbed for centuries. Besides the 
natural roughness of such a pavement, there are 
numerous chuck-holes. No matter how slowly we 
drive, we bounce and jump over these stones, which 
strike the tires with sledge-hammer force, send- 

T 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

ing a series of shivers throughout the car. It is no 
wonder that such pavements and the grindstone 
roads often limit the life of tires to a few hun- 
dred miles. | i 

Out of Abbeville we "hit up" pretty strongly, 
for it is nearly dark and we plan to reach Rouen 
for the night. The straight fine road offers tempta- 
tion to speed, under the circumstances, and our 
odometer does not vary much from forty miles — 
when we are suddenly treated to a surprise that 
makes us more cautious about speeding on French 
roads at dusk. In a little hollow we strike a ditch 
six inches deep by two or three feet in width — a "can- 
ivau," as they designate it in France — with a terri- 
fic jolt which almost threatens the car with destruc- 
tion. The frame strikes the axles with fearful force; 
it seems impossible that nothing should be broken. 
A careful search fails to reveal any apparent dam- 
age, though a fractured axle-rod a short time later 
is undoubtedly a result of the violent blow. It 
seems strange that an important main road should 
have such a dangerous defect, though we find many 
similar cases later; but as we travel no more after 
dusk, and generally at much more moderate speed, 
we have no further mishap of the kind. We light 
our lamps and proceed at a more sober pace to 
Neufchatel, where we decide to stop for the night 

8 



BOULOGNE TO ROUEN 

at the rather unattractive-looking Lion d'Or. We 
have reason to congratulate ourselves, for the way- 
side inn is really preferable to the Angleterre at 
Rouen and the rates are scarcely half so much. It 
is a rambling old house, partly surrounding a stable- 
yard court where the motor is stored for the night. 
The regular meal time is past, but a plain supper 
is prepared for us. We are tired enough not to be 
too critical of our accommodations and the rooms 
and beds are clean and fairly comfortable. We 
have breakfast at a long table where the guests all 
sit together and the fare, while plain, is good. 

There is nothing of interest in Neufchatel, though 
its cheese has given it a world-wide fame. It is 
a market town of four or five thousand people, de- 
pending largely on the prosperous country surround- 
ing it. 

We are early away for Rouen and in course of 
an hour we come in sight of the cathedral spire, 
the highest in all France, rising nearly five hundred 
feet and overtopping Salisbury, the loftiest in Eng- 
land, by almost one hundred feet. At the Cap- 
tain's recommendation we seek the Hotel Angleterre 
— which means the Hotel England — a bid, no doubt, 
for the patronage of the numerous English-speak- 
ing tourists who visit the city. There is a deal of 
dickering before we get settled, for the rates are 

9 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

unreasonably high; but after considerable parley a 
bargain is made. We enter the diminutive "lift," 
which holds two persons by a little crowding, but 
after the first trip we use the stairway to save time. 
One could not "do" Rouen in the guide-book 
sense in less than a week — but such is not the object 
of our present tour. If one brings a motor to France 
he can hardly afford to let it stand idle to spend 
several days in any city. We shall see what we 
can of Rouen in a day and take the road again 
in the morning. 

Our first thought is of Jeanne d'Arc and her 
martyrdom in the old city and our second of the 
cathedral, in some respects one of the most remark- 
able in Europe. It is but a stone's throw from our 
hotel and is consequently our first attraction. The 
facade is imposing despite its incongruous architec- 
tural details and has a world of intricate carving and 
sculpture, partly concealed by scaffolding, for the 
church is being restored. The towers flanking the 
facade are unfinished, both lacking the tall Gothic 
spire originally planned and, indeed, necessary to 
give a harmonious effect to the whole. A spire of 
open iron-work nearly five hundred feet in height 
replaces the original wooden structure burned by 
lightning in 1822 and is severely criticised as being 

10 



BOULOGNE TO ROUEN 

out of keeping with the elaborate stone building 
which it surmounts. 

Once inside we are overwhelmed by a sense of 
vastness — the great church is nearly five hundred 
feet in length, while the transept is a third as wide. 
The arches of the nave seem almost lost in the dim, 
softly toned light that streams in from the richly 
colored windows, some of which date from the 
twelfth century. If the exterior is incongruous, the 
interior is indeed a symphony in stone, despite a 
few jarring notes in the decorations of some of the 
private chapels. There are many beautiful monu- 
ments, mainly to French church dignitaries whom 
we never heard of and care little about, but the 
battered gigantic limestone effigy discovered in 1 838 
is full of fascinating interest, for it represents Richard 
the Lion-Hearted — the Richard of "Ivanhoe" — 
whose heart, enclosed in a triple casket of lead, 
wood and silver, is buried beneath. The figure is 
nearly seven feet in length and we wonder if this 
is a true representation of the stature of our child- 
hood's hero, who, 

"starred with idle glory, came 
Bearing from leaguered Ascalon 

The barren splendour of his fame, 
And, vanquished by an unknown bow, 
Lies vainly great at Fontevraud." 
11 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

For Richard's body was interred at Fontevraud, 
near Orleans, with other members of English royalty. 
Henry II. is also buried in Rouen Cathedral — all 
indicative that there was a day when English kings 
regarded Normandy as their home! 

Another memorial which interests us is dedicated 
to LaSalle, the great explorer, who was born in 
Rouen. He was buried, as every schoolboy knows, 
in the great river which he discovered, but his 
memory is cherished by his native city as the man 
who gave the empire of Louisiana to France. 

Rouen has at least two other churches of first 
magnitude — St. Ouen and St. Maclou — but we 
shall have to content ourselves with a cursory glance 
at their magnificence. The former is declared to 
be "one of the most beautiful Gothic churches in 
existence, surpassing the cathedral both in extent 
and excellence of style." Such is the pronounce- 
ment of that final authority on such matters, Herr 
Baedeker! 

But, after all, is not Rouen best known to the 
world because of its connection with the strange 
figure of Jeanne d'Arc? Indeed, her career savors 
of myth and legend — not the sober fact of history 
— and it is hard to conceive of the scene that took 
place around the fatal spot in the Vieux-Marche, 
now marked with a large stone bearing the inscrip- 

12 



BOULOGNE TO ROUEN 

tion, "Jeanne d'Arc, 30 Mar. 1431." Here a 
tender young woman whose only crime was an im- 
plicit belief that she was divinely inspired, was 
burned at the stake by order of a reverend bishop 
who, surrounded by his satellites, approvingly 
lcoked on the dreadful scene. And these men were 
not painted savages, but high dignitaries of Christen- 
dom. Much of old Rouen stands to-day as it stood 
then, but what a vast change has been wrought in 
humankind! Only a single ruinous tower remains 
of the castle where the Maid was confined. While 
imprisoned here she was intimidated by being shown 
the instruments of torture; but she withstood the 
callous brutality of her persecutors with fortitude and 
heroism that baffled them, though it only enraged 
them the more. 

We acknowledge the hopelessness of getting any 
adequate idea of a city of such antiquity and im- 
portance in a day and the Captain says we may 
as well quit trying. He suggests that we take the 
tram for Bonsecours, situated on the steep hill 
towering high over the town from the right bank 
of the river. Here is a modern Catholic cemetery 
with many handsome tombs and monuments and, in 
the center, a recently erected memorial to Joan 
of Arc. This consists of three little temples in the 
Renaissance style, the central chapel enclosing a 

13 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

marble statue of the Maid. There is a modern church 
near by whose interior — a solid mass of bright 
green, red and gold — is the most gorgeous we have 
seen. The specialty of this church is "votive tablets" 
— the walls are covered with little marble placards 
telling what some particular saint has done for the 
donor in response to a vow. A round charge, the 
Captain says, is made for each tablet, so that the 
income of Bonsecours Church must be a good one. 
But one will not visit Bonsecours to see the 
church or the memorial, though both are interesting 
in their way, but for the unmatched view of the 
city and the Seine Valley, which good authorities 
pronounce one of the finest panoramas in Europe. 
From the memorial the whole city lies spread out 
like a map — so far beneath that the five-hundred- 
foot spire of Notre Dame is below the level of our 
vision. The city, with its splendid spires rising 
amidst the wilderness of streets and house-roofs, 
fills the valley near at hand and the broad, shining 
folds of the Seine, with its old bridges and wooded 
shores, lends a glorious variety to the scene. The 
view up and down the river is quite unobstructed, 
covering a beautiful and prosperous valley bounded 
en either side by the verdant hills of Normandy. 
This view alone well repays a visit to Bonsecours, 
whether one's stay in Rouen be short or long. 

14 



BOULOGNE TO ROUEN 

In leaving Rouen we cross the Seine and follow 
the fine straight road which runs through Pont 
Audemer to Honfleur on the coast. This was not 
our prearranged route, but the Captain apparently 
gravitates toward the sea whenever possible, and 
he is responsible for the diversion. From Honfleur 
we follow the narrow road along the coast — its 
sharp turns, devious windings, short steep hills and 
the hedgerows which border it in places recalling 
the byways of Devon and Cornwall. We again 
come out on the shore at Trouville-sur-Mer, a water- 
ing place with an array of imposing hotels. It is 
not yet the "season" and many of the hotels are 
closed, but the Belvue, one of the largest, is doing 
business and we have an elaborate luncheon here 
which costs more than we like to pay. 

Out of Trouville our road still pursues the coast, 
running through a series of resorts and fishing vil- 
lages until it swings inland for Caen — a quaint, ir- 
regular old place which, next to Rouen, declares 
Baedeker, is the most interesting city in Normandy. 
We are sorry that many of its show-places are closed 
to us, for it is Sunday and the churches are not 
open to tourist inspection. In St. Stephen's we 
might have seen the tomb of William the Conqueror, 
though his remains no longer rest beneath it, having 
been disinterred and scattered by the Huguenots in 

15 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

1562. Caen has two other great churches — St. 
Peter's and Trinity, which we can view only from 
the outside. 

It is Pentecost Sunday and the streets are 
thronged with young girls in white who have taken 
part in confirmation services; we have seen others 
at many places during the day. It is about the 
only thing to remind us that it is Sunday, for the 
shops are open, work is going on in the fields, and 
road-making is in progress; we note little suspension 
of week-day activities. The peasants whom we 
see by the roadside and in the little villages are 
generally very dirty but seem happy and content. 
The farm houses are usually unattractive, often with 
filthy surroundings — muck-heaps in front of the 
doors — not unlike what we saw in some parts of 
Ireland. 

The road from Caen to Bayeux runs as straight as 
an arrow's flight, broad, level and bordered — as 
most main roads are in France — by rows of stately 
trees. We give the motor full rein and the green 
sunny fields flit joyously past us. What a relief to 
"open her up" without thought of a policeman be- 
hind every bush! Is it any wonder that the oft- 
trapped Englishman considers France a motorist's 
paradise? 

The spires of Bayeux Cathedral soon rise before us 

16 



BOULOGNE TO ROUEN 

and we must content ourselves with the exterior of 
this magnificent church. Not so with the museum 
which contains the Bayeux Tapestry, for the lady 
member of our party is determined to see this famous 
piece of needlework, willy nilly. The custodian is 
finally located and we are admitted to view the 
relic. It is a strip of linen cloth eighteen inches 
wide and two hundred thirty feet long, embroidered 
in colored thread with scenes representing the Con- 
quest of England by William of Normandy. It 
is claimed that the work was done by Queen Ma- 
tilda and her maidens, though this is disputed by 
some authorities; but its importance as a contem- 
porary representation of historic events of the time 
of William I. far outweighs its artistic significance. 

The main road from Bayeux to St. Lo is one 
of the most glorious highways in France. It runs 
through an almost unbroken forest of giant trees 
for a good part of the distance — a little more than 
twenty miles — and the sunset sky gleaming through 
the stately trunks relieves the otherwise somber 
effect. 

By happy accident we reach St. Lo at night- 
fall and turn into the courtyard of the Hotel de 
Univers, a comfortable-looking old house invitingly 
close to the roadside. I say by happy accident, 
for we never planned to stop at St. Lo and but 

17 



THROUGH SUMMER PRANCE 

for chance might have remained in ignorance of 
one of the most charming little cathedral towns in 
France. Indeed, we feel that St. Lo is ours by 
right of discovery, for we find but scant mention 
of it in the guide-books. After an excellent though 
unpretentious dinner, we sally forth from our inn 
to view our surroundings in the deepening twilight. 
The town is situated on the margin of a still little 
river which wonderfully reflects the ancient vine- 
covered houses that climb the sharply sloping hill- 
side. The huge bulk of the cathedral looms mys- 
teriously over the town and its soaring twin spires 
are sharply outlined against the dim moonlit sky. 
The towers are not exact duplicates, as they ap- 
pear from a distance, but both exhibit the same 
general characteristics of Gothic style. The whole 
scene is one of enchanting beauty; the dull glow of 
the river, the houses massed on the hillside, with 
lighted windows gleaming here and there and 
and crowning all the vast sentinellike form of the 
cathedral — a scene that would lose half its charm 
if viewed by the flaunting light of day. And we 
secretly resolve that we shall have no such disen- 
chantment; we shall steal quietly out of St. Lo in 
the early morning with never a backward glance. 
We do not, therefore, see the interior of the church, 
which has several features of peculiar interest, and 

18 




> 



w 

DC 
H 

O 
O 



BOULOGNE TO ROUEN 

we may be pardoned for adopting the description 
of an English writer: 

"Notre Dame de Saint-Lo has a very unusual 
and original plan, widening towards the east and 
adding another aisle to the north and south ambula- 
tories. On the north side is its chief curiosity, an 
out-door pulpit, built at the end of the fifteenth 
century and probably used by Huguenot preachers, 
to whom a sermon was a sermon, whether preached 
under a vaulted roof or the open sky. What strikes 
one most about the interior of the church is its want 
of light. The nave is absolutely unlighted, having 
neither tri-forium nor clerestory, and the aisles have 
only one tier of large windows, whose glass is old 
and very fine, though in most cases pieced together; 
the nave piers are massive, with a cluster of three 
shafts; those of the choir are quite simple, and 
have one noticeable feature, the absence of capitals, 
the vault mouldings dying away into the pier." 

We shall remember our hotel as the best type 
of the small-town French inn — a simple, old-fash- 
ioned house where we had attentive service and a 
studied effort to please was made by all connected 
with the place. And not the least of its merits 
are its moderate charges — less than half we paid 
at many of the larger places, often for less satisfactory 
accommodations. 

19 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

Twenty miles westward from St. Lo we come 
to Coutances, which boasts of a cathedral church 
of the first magnitude and one of the oldest in Nor- 
mandy, dating almost in entirety from the thirteenth 
century. Leaving the main highway a little beyond 
Coutances, we follow the narrow byroad running 
about a mile from the coast through Granville, a 
well-known seaside resort, to Avranches. This 
road is scarcely more than a winding lane with 
many sharp little hills, hedge-bordered in places and 
often overarched by trees — a little like the roads of 
Southern England, a type not very common in 
France. South of Granville it closely follows the 
shore for a few miles, then swings inland for a mile 
or two, affording only occasional glimpses of the sea. 
Avranches, from its commanding site on a lofty hill, 
soon breaks into view, and the Captain suggests 
luncheon at the Grand Hotel de France et de 
Londres, which he says is famous in this section. 
Besides, it is well worth while to ascend the hill 
for the panorama of St. Michel's Bay, with its 
cathedral-crowned islet, which may be seen to the 
best advantage from the town. It is a stiff, wind- 
ing climb to the summit, but we reach the cobble- 
paved, vine-embowered court of the hotel just in 
time for dinner. I suppose the "Londres" was 
added to the name of the inn with a view of 

20 



BOULOGNE TO ROUEN 

catching the English-speaking trade, which is con- 
siderable in Avranches, since the town is the stop- 
ping-place of many tourists who visit Mont St. 
Michel. From the courtyard we are ushered into 
the dining-room where, after the fashion of country 
inns in France, a single long table serves all the 
guests. At the head sits the proprietor, a suave, 
gray-bearded gentleman who graciously does the 
courtesies of the table. The meal is quite an elab- 
orate one and there is plenty of old port wine for 
the bibulously inclined. I might say here that this 
inclusion of wines without extra charge is a common 
but not universal practice with the French country 
inns; generally these liquors are of the cheapest 
quality, little better than vinegar, and one trial will 
make the average tourist a teetotaler unless he wishes 
to order a better grade as an "extra." After the 
meal our host comes out to wish us "bon voyage" 
as we depart and we are at a loss to understand 
his intention when he picks up a small ladder and 
begins climbing up the wall. We see, however, 
that a rose-vine bearing a few beautiful blossoms 
clings to the stones above a window. The old gen- 
tleman cuts some of the choicest flowers and pre- 
sents them, with a gracious bow, to the lady of 
our party. 

The new causeway makes Mont St. Michel easily 

21 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

accessible to motorists and affords a splendid view 
as one approaches the towered and pinnacled rock 
and the little town that climbs its steep sides. For- 
merly the tide covered the rough road that led to 
the mount, much the same as it still covers the 
approach to the Cornish St. Michael; but the new 
grade is above high-tide level and the abbey may 
be reached at any time of the day. It is a wear- 
isome climb to the summit — for the car cannot enter 
the narrow streets of the town — and for some time 
we wait the pleasure of the guide, who, being a 
government official, does not permit himself to be 
unduly hurried. He speaks only French and but 
for the Captain's services we should know little of 
his story. To our half-serious remark that a lift 
would save visitors some hard work he replies 
with a shrug, 

"A lift in Mont St. Michel? It wouldn't be 
Mont St. Michel any longer!" — a hint of how 
carefully the atmosphere of mediaevalism is pre- 
served here. 

The abbey as it stands to-day is largely the result 
of an extensive restoration begun by the government 
in 1863. This accounts for the surprisingly perfect 
condition of much of the building, and it also con- 
firms the wisdom of the undertaking by which a 
great service has been rendered to architecture. 



BOULOGNE TO ROUEN 

Previous to the restoration the abbey was used as 
a prison, but it is now chiefly a show-place, though 
services are regularly conducted in the chapel. 
Especially noteworthy are the cloisters, a thirteenth- 
century reproduction, with two hundred and twenty 
columns of polished granite embedded in the wall 
and ranged in double arcades, the graceful vaults 
decorated with exquisite carving and a beautiful 
frieze. The most notable apartment is the Hall of 
the Chevaliers, likewise a thirteenth-century replica. 
The vaulting of solid stone is supported by a triple 
row of massive columns running the full length of 
nearly one hundred feet — like ranks of giant tree 
trunks. There is a beautiful chapel and dungeons 
and crypts galore, the names of which we made 
no attempt to remember. Likewise we gave little 
attention to the historic episodes of the mount, 
which are not of great importance. The interest 
of the tourist centers in the remarkably striking 
effect of the great group of Gothic buildings crown- 
ing the rock and in the artistic beauty of the archi- 
tectural details. Many wonderful views of the sea 
and of the hills and towns around the bay may be 
seen to splendid advantage from the terraces and 
battlements. There are a number of pleasant little tea 
gardens where one may order light refreshments and 
in the meanwhile enjoy a most inspiring view of the 



THROUGH SUMMER PRANCE 

sea and distant landscape. The little town at the 
foot of the rock is a quaint old-world place with 
a single street but a few feet wide. The small 
population subsists on tourist trade — restaurants and 
souvenir shops making up the village. Little is 
doing to-day, as we are in advance of the liveliest 
season. The greatest number of visitors come on 
Sunday — a gala day at Mont St. Michel in summer. 

A rough, stony road takes us to St. Malo and 
adds considerable wearisome tire trouble to an al- 
ready strenuous day. We are glad to stop at the 
Hotel de Univers, even though it is not prepos- 
sessing from without. 

St. Malo's antiquity and quaintness are its stock 
in trade, and these, together with its position on 
a peninsula, with the sea on every hand, make it 
one of the most popular resorts in France. Steamers 
from Southampton bring numbers of English visitors 
— we find no interpreter needed at the hotel. The 
town is encircled by walls, the greater part recently 
restored. They are none the less picturesque and 
the mighty towers at the entrance gateways savor 
strongly indeed of mediaevalism. In the older part 
of the town the streets are so narrow and crooked 
as to exclude motors, the widest not exceeding twen- 
ty feet, and there are seldom walks on either side. 
The houses bordering them show every evidence of 

24 




A STREET IN ST. MALO 



BOULOGNE TO ROUEN 

age — St. Malo is best described by the often over- 
worked term, "old-world." The huge church — for- 
merly a cathedral — is so hedged in by buildings that 
it is impossible to get a good view of the exterior or to 
take a satisfactory photograph. As a result of such 
crowding it is poorly lighted inside, though it really 
has an impressive interior. A walk round the walls 
or ramparts of St. Malo affords a wonderful view of 
the sea and surrounding country and also many 
interesting glimpses of queer nooks and corners in 
the town itself. The bay is finest at full tide, which 
rises here to the astonishing height of forty-nine feet 
above low water. There are numerous fortified 
islands and it is possible to reach some of these on 
foot when the tide is out. St. Malo was besieged 
many times during the endless wars between Eng- 
land and France, but owing to its remarkable forti- 
fications was never taken. 

There is more rough, badly worn road between 
St. Malo and Rennes, though in the main it is 
broad and level. Its effect on tires is indeed dis- 
heartening^ — we have run less than a thousand miles 
since landing and new envelopes are showing signs 
of dissolution. Part of the game, no doubt, but 
it is hard to be cheerful losers in such a game, to 
say the least. 

Rennes, we find, has other claims to fame than 

25 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

the Dreyfus trial, which is the first distinction that 
comes to mind. Its public museum and galleries 
contain one of the best provincial collections in 
France, and there is an imposing modern cathe- 
dral. We have an excellent lunch at the Grand 
Hotel, though it is a dingy-looking place that would 
hardly invite a lengthy stop if appearances should 
be considered. It is not Baedeker's number one 
and there is doubtless a better hotel in Rennes. 

The road which we follow in leaving the town 
is the best we have yet traversed in France; it is 
broad, straight and newly surfaced, and the thirty 
or more miles to Chateaubriant are rapidly covered. 
Here we find an ancient town of a few thousand 
people, and an enormous old castle partly in ruins, 
a fit match for Conway or Harlech in Britain. Its 
square-topped, crenelated towers and long em- 
brasured battlements are quite different from the 
pointed Gothic style of the usual French chateau. 

Beyond Chateaubriant the road runs broad and 
straight for miles through a beautiful and prosperous 
country. Evidently the land is immensely fertile 
and tilled with the thoroughness that characterizes 
French agriculture. The small village is the only 
discordant note. We pass through several all alike, 
bare, dirty and uninteresting, quite different from 
the trim, flower-decked beauty of the English village. 

26 



BOULOGNE TO ROUEN 

And they grow steadily more repulsive as we pro- 
gress farther inland until, as we near the German 
border — but the subject is not pleasant enough to 
anticipate ! 

Angers is a cathedral town of eighty thousand 
people on the River Maine, two or three miles 
above its confluence with the Loire. It is of ancient 
origin, but the French passion for making every- 
thing new (according to an English critic) has 
swept away most of its old-time landmarks save the 
castle and cathedral. The former was one of the 
most extensive mediaeval fortresses in all France and 
is still imposing, despite the fact that several of its 
original seventeen towers have been razed and its 
great moat filled up. It is now more massive than 
picturesque. "It has no beauty, no grace, no detail, 
nothing to charm or detain you ; it is simply very old 
and very big and it takes its place in your recollect- 
tions as a perfect specimen of a superannuated 
feudal stronghold." The huge bastions, girded with 
iron bands, and the high perpendicular walls spring- 
ing out of the dark waters of the moat must have 
made the castle impregnable against any method of 
assault before the days of artillery. The castle is 
easily the most distinctive feature of Angers and 
the one every visitor should see, though I must con- 
fess we failed to visit it. We should also have seen 

27 



THROUGH SUMMER PRANCE 

the cathedral and museum, but museums consume 
time and time is the first consideration on a motor 
tour. 

Our Hotel, the Grand, though old, is cleanly and 
pleasant, with high ceilings and broad corridors 
which have immense fulHength mirrors at every 
turn. The prices for all this magnificence are quite 
moderate — largely due, no doubt, to the Captain's 
prearrangement with the manager. The service, 
however, is a little slack, especially at the table. 

At Angers we are in the edge of the Chateau 
District, and as my chapter has already run to 
considerable length, I shall avail myself of this logical 
stopping place. The story of the French chateaus 
has filled many a good-sized volume and may well 
occupy a separate chapter in this rather hurried 
record. 



28 



II 

THE CHATEAU DISTRICT 

For more than two hundred miles after leaving 
Angers we follow a road that may justly be described 
as one of the most unique and picturesque in France. 
It seldom takes us out of sight of the 
shining Loire and most of the way it runs 
on an embankment directly overlooking the 
river, affording a panoramic view of the 
fertile valley which stretches to green hills on 
either side. The embankment is primarily to confine 
the waters during freshets, but its broad level top 
makes an excellent roadbed, which is generally in 
good condition. A few miles out of Angers we get 
our first view of the Loire, a majestic river three or 
four hundred yards in width and in full flow at the 
present time. Occasional islets add to the beauty 
of the scene and the landscape on either hand 
is studded with splendid trees. It is an opulent- 
looking country and we pass miles of green fields 
interspersed at times with unbroken stretches of forest. 
There are several towns and villages on both sides 
of the river and they are cleaner and better in 

29 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

appearance than those we passed yesterday. Near 
Tours the country becomes more broken and the 
hillsides are covered with endless vineyards. In 
places the clifflike hills rise close to the roadside 
and these are honeycombed with caves; some are 
occupied as dwellings by the peasants, but the 
greater number serve as storage cellars for wine, 
which is produced in large quantities in this vicin- 
ity. These modern "cliff-dwellers" are not so poor 
as their homes would indicate; there are many well- 
to-do peasants among them. In fact, the very poor 
are scarce in rural France; the universal habits of 
industry and economy have spread prosperity among 
all classes of people; rough attire and squalid sur- 
roundings are seldom indicative of real poverty, as 
in England. Everybody is engaged in some useful 
occupation — old women may be seen herding a 
cow, donkey or geese by the roadside and knitting 
industriously the while. 

Tours is one of the most beautiful of the older 
French provincial cities. We have a fine view of 
the town from across the Loire as we approach, 
for it lies on the south side of the river. It is a 
famous tourist center — perhaps the first objective, 
after Paris, of the majority of Americans and Eng- 
lish, and it has several pretentious hotels. We 
choose the newest, the Metropole, which proves 

30 



THE CHATEAU DISTRICT 

very satisfactory. Here the Captain's wiles fail to 
reduce the first-named tariff, for the hotel is full, 
and we can only guess what the charge might have 
been if not agreed upon in advance. In defense 
of his bargaining the Captain tells a story of a 
previous trip he made with an American party in 
Italy. English was spoken at a hotel where one 
of the party asked the rates and the proprietor, 
assuming that his prospective guests did not under- 
stand the language of the country, had a little by- 
talk with a henchman as to charges and remarked 
that the tourists, being Americans, would probably 
stand three or four times the regular rates, which 
the inn-keeper proceeded to ask. He was greatly 
chagrinned when the Captain repeated the sub- 
stance of the conversation he had heard and told 
the would-be robber that the party would seek ac- 
commodations elsewhere. 

I will let this little digression take the place of 
descriptive remarks concerning Tours, which has 
probably been written about more than any other 
city in France excepting Paris. The cathedral 
everyone will see; it is especially noteworthy for 
the facade, which is the best and most ornate exam- 
ple of the so-called Flamboyant style in existence. 
The great Renaissance towers are comparatively 

31 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

modern and to our mind lack the grace and fit- 
ness of the pointed Gothic style. 

The country about Tours has more to attract the 
tourist than the city itself, for within a few miles 
are the famous chateaus which have been exploited 
by literary travelers of all degrees. But it has lost 
none of its charm on that account and perhaps every 
writer has presented to some extent a different view- 
point of its beauty and romance. Touraine is quite 
unlike any other part of France ; its vistas of grayish- 
green levels, diversified with slim shimmering pop- 
lars and flashes of its broad lazy rivers, are quite 
unique and characteristic. And when such a land- 
scape is dotted with an array of splendid historic 
palaces such as Blois, Amboise, Chinon, Chaumont 
and Chenonceaux, it assuredly reaches the height 
of romantic interest. All of these, it is true, are 
not within the exact political limits of Touraine, 
but all are within easy reach of Tours. 

We make Chenonceaux our objective for the 
afternoon. It lies a little more than twenty miles 
east of Tours and the road follows the course of 
the Cher almost the whole distance. The palace 
stands directly above the river, supported on mas- 
sive arches which rest on piles in the bed of the 
stream. A narrow drawbridge at either end cuts 
the entrances from the shore, though these bridges 

32 






THE CHATEAU DISTRICT 

were never intended as a means of defense. Chen- 
onceaux was in no sense a military fortress — its 
memories are of love and jealousy and not of war 
or assassination. It was built early in the sixteenth 
century by a receiver of taxes to King Francis, but 
so much of the public funds went into the work 
that its projector died in disgrace and his son 
atoned as best he could by turning the chateau over 
to the king. 

And here, in the heart of old France, we come 
upon another memory of Mary Stuart, for here, with 
Francis II., she spent her honeymoon — if, indeed, 
we may style her short loveless marriage a honey- 
moon — coming direct from Amboise, where she had 
unwillingly witnessed the awful scenes of the mas- 
sacre of the Huguenots. What must have been 
the reveries of the girl-queen at Chenonceaux! In 
a foreign land, surrounded by a wicked, intriguing 
court, with scenes of bloodshed and death on every 
hand and wedded to a hopeless imbecile, fore- 
doomed to early death — surely even the strange 
beauty of the river palace could not have driven 
these terrible ghosts from her mind. 

Chenonceaux has many memories of love and 
intrigue, for here in 1546 Francis I. and his mis- 
tress, the famous Diane of Poitiers, gave a great 
hunting party; but the heir-apparent, Prince Henry, 

33 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

soon gained the affections of the fair Diane and on 
his accession to the throne presented her with the 
chateau, to which she had taken a great fancy. 
She it was who built the bridgelike hall connecting 
the castle with the south bank of the river and 
she otherwise improved the palace and grounds; 
but on the death of the king, twelve years later, 
the queen — the terrible Catherine de Medici — com- 
pelled Diane to give up Chenonceaux and to be- 
take herself to the older and less attractive Chau- 
mont. The chateau escaped serious injury during 
the fiery period of the Revolution, but the insur- 
rectionists compelled the then owner, Madame 
Dupin, to surrender her securities, furniture, price- 
less paintings and objects of art — the collection of 
nearly three centuries — and all were destroyed in 
a bonfire. 

Chenonceaux is now the property of a wealthy 
Cuban who has spent a fortune in its restoration 
and improving the grounds, which accounts for the 
trim, new appearance of the place. The great 
avenue leading from the public entrance passes 
through formal gardens brilliant with flowers and 
beautified with rare shrubbery and majestic trees. 
It is a pleasant and romantic place and the con- 
siderateness of the owner in opening it to visitors 
for a trifling fee deserves commendation. 

84 




5 

£ 
H 

O 
ft! 
U 

o 

ft! 



O 

CO 



THE CHATEAU DISTRICT 

Quite different are the memories of Amboise, 
the vast, acropolislike pile which towers over the 
Loire some dozen miles beyond Tours and which 
we reach early the next day after a delightful run 
along the broad river. We have kept to the north 
bank and cross the river into the little village, from 
which a steep ascent leads to the chateau. The 
present structure is largely the result of modern 
restoration, the huge round tower being about all 
that remains of the ancient castle. This contains 
a circular inclined plane, up which Emperor Charles 
V. of the Holy Roman Empire rode on horseback 
when he visited Francis I. in 1539, and it is pos- 
sible for a medium-sized automobile to make the 
ascent to-day. 

Amboise is chiefly remembered for the awful 
deeds of Catherine de Medici, who from 
the balcony overlooking the town watched 
the massacre, which she personally di- 
rected, of twelve hundred Huguenots. With her 
were the young king, Francis II., and his bride, 
Mary Stuart, who were compelled to witness the 
series of horrible executions which were carried out 
in the presence of the court. The leaders were 
hung from the iron balconies and others were mur- 
dered in the courtyard. They met their fate with 
stern religious enthusiasm, singing, it is recorded, 

35 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

until death silenced their voices. The direct cause 
of the massacre was the discovery of a plot on 
the part of the Huguenot leaders to abduct the 
young king in order to get him from under the 
evil influence of his mother. 

The chateau contains a tomb that alone should 
make it the shrine of innumerable pilgrims, for 
here is buried that many-sided genius, Leonardo da 
Vinci, who died in Amboise in 1519 and whom 
many authorities regard as the most remarkable man 
the human race has yet produced. 

But enough of horrors and tombs; we go out on 
the balcony, where the old tigress stood in that 
far-off day, and contemplate the enchanting scene 
that lies beneath us. Out beyond the blue river 
a wide peaceful plain stretches to the purple hills 
in the far distance; just below are the gray roofs 
of the town and there are glorious vistas up and 
down the broad stream. This is the memory we 
should prefer to carry away with us, rather than 
that of the murderous deeds of Catherine de Medici ! 

On arriving at Blois, twenty miles farther down 
the river road, thoughts of belated luncheon first 
engage our minds and the Hotel de Angleterre 
sounds good, looks good, and proves good, indeed. 
Its dining-room is a glass-enclosed balcony over- 
hanging the river, which adds a picturesque view 

36 




GRAND STAIRWAY OF FRANCIS I. AT BLOIS 



THE CHATEAU DISTRICT 

to a very excellent meal. The chateau, a vast quad- 
rangular pile surrounding a great court, is but a 
short distance from the hotel. Only the historic 
apartments are shown — quite enough, since several 
hours would be required to make a complete round 
of the enormous edifice. The castle has passed 
into the hands of the government and is being care- 
fully restored. It is planned to make it a great 
museum of art and history and several rooms already 
contain an important collection. The palace was 
built at different periods, from the thirteenth to the 
seventeenth centuries, and was originally a noble- 
man's home, but later a residence of the kings of 
France. 

Inside the court our attention is attracted by the 
elaborate decorations and carvings of the walls. On 
one side is a long open gallery supported by richly 
wrought columns; but most marvelous is the great 
winding stairway projecting from the wall and open 
on the inner side. Every inch of this structure — its 
balconies, its pillars and its huge central column — 
is wrought over with beautiful images and strange 
devices, among which the salamander of Francis I. 
is most noticeable. When we have admired the 
details of the court to our satisfaction, the guide 
conducts us through a labyrinth of gorgeously 
decorated rooms with many magnificent fireplaces 

37 



THROUGH SUMMER PRANCE 

and mantels but otherwise quite unfurnished. The 
apartments of the crafty and cruel Catherine de 
Medici are especially noteworthy, one of them — 
her study — having no fewer than one hundred and 
fifty carved panels which conceal secret crypts and 
hiding-places. These range from small boxes — evi- 
dently for jewels or papers — to a closet large enough 
for one to hide in. 

The overshadowing tragic event of Blois — there 
were a host of minor ones — was the assassination 
of the Duke of Guise in 1588. Henry III., a 
weak and vacillating king, was completely dominated 
by this powerful nobleman, whose fanatical religious 
zeal led him to establish a league to restore the 
supremacy of the Catholic religion. The king was 
forced to proclaim the duke lieutenant-general of 
the kingdom and to pledge himself to extirpate the 
heretics; but despite his outward compliance Henry 
was resolved on vengeance. According to the 
ideas of the times an objectionable courtier could 
best be removed by assassination and this the king 
determined upon. He piously ordered two court 
priests to pray for the success of his plan and sum- 
moned the duke to his presence. Guise was stand- 
ing before the fire in the great dining-room and 
though he doubtless suspected his royal masters 
kind intentions toward him, walked into the next 

38 



THE CHATEAU DISTRICT 

room, where nine of the king's henchmen awaited 
him. They offered no immediate violence, but fol- 
lowed him into the corridor, where they at once 
drew swords and fell upon him. Even against such 
odds the duke, who was a powerful man, made 
a strong resistance and though repeatedly stabbed, 
fought his way to the king's room, where he fell 
at the foot of the royal bed. Henry, when assured 
that his enemy was really dead, came trembling out 
of the adjoining room and kicking the corpse, ex- 
claimed, "How big he is; bigger dead than alive!" 
The next morning the duke's brother, the Cardinal 
of Lorraine, was also murdered in the castle as he 
was hastening to obey a summons from the king. 

There is little suggestion of such horrors in the 
polished floors and gilded walls that surround us 
today as we hear the Captain translate the grue- 
some details from the guide's voluble sentences. 
We listen only perfunctorily; it all seems unreason- 
able and unreal as the sun, breaking from the clouds 
that have prevailed much of the day, floods the 
great apartments with light. We have not followed 
this tale of blood and treachery closely; it is only 
another reminder that cruelty and inhumanity were 
very common a few centuries ago. 

There is a minor cathedral in Blois, but the most 
interesting church is St. Nicholas, formerly a part 

39 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANC© 

of the abbey and dating from 1 1 38. Its hand- 
some facade with twin towers is the product of 
recent restoration. There are also many quaint 
timbered house in Blois, dating from the fifteenth 
century and later, but we pay little attention to 
them. I hardly know why our enthusiasm for old 
French houses is so limited, considering how eagerly 
we sought such bits of antiquity in England. 

We pursue the river road the rest of the day, 
though in places it swings several miles from the 
Loire — or does the Loire swing from the road, 
which seems arrow-straight everywhere? — and cuts 
across some lovely rural country. Fields of grain, 
just beginning to ripen, predominate and there are 
also green meadows and patches of carmine clover. 
Crimson poppies and blue cornflowers gleam among 
the wheat, lending a touch of brilliant color to 
the billowy fields. 

The village of Beaugency, which we passed 
about midway between Tours and Orleans, is one 
that will arrest the attention of the casual passer- 
by. It is more reminiscent of the castellated small 
town of England than one often finds in France. 
It is overshadowed by a huge Norman keep with 
sheltered, ivy-grown parapets, the sole remaining 
portion of an eleventh-century castle. The re- 
mainder of the present castle was built as a strong- 

40 



THE CHATEAU DISTRICT 

hold against the English, only to be taken by them 
shortly after its completion. The invaders, however, 
were driven out by the French army under Joan 
of Arc in 1429. The bridge at Beaugency is the 
oldest on the Loire, having spanned the river since 
the thirteenth century. The town has stood several 
sieges and was the scene of terrible excesses in the 
religious wars of the sixteenth century, the abbey 
having been burned by the Protestants in 1567. 

Towards evening we again come to the river 
bank and ere long the towers of Orleans break on 
our view. Despite its great antiquity the city ap- 
pears quite modern, for it has been so rebuilt that 
but few of its ancient landmarks remain. Even the 
cathedral is a modern restoration — almost in toto 
— and there is scarcely a complete building in the 
town antedating 1 500. The main streets are broad 
and well-paved and electric trams run on many of 
them. Our hotel, the Grand Aignan, is rather 
old-fashioned and somewhat dingy, but it is clean 
and comfortable and its rates are not exorbitant. 
There is a modern and more fashionable hotel in 
the city, but we have learned that second-class inns 
in cities of medium size are often good and much 
easier on one's purse. 

Our first thought, when we begin our after- 
dinner ramble, is that Orleans should change its 

41 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

name to Jeanne cTArcville. I know of no other 
instance where a city of seventy thousand people 
is so completely dominated by a single name. The 
statues, the streets, the galleries, museums, churches 
and shops — all remind one of the immortal Maid 
who made her first triumphal entry into Orleans in 
1429, when the city was hard pressed by the 
English besiegers. Every postcard and souvenir 
urged upon the visitor has something to do with 
the patron saint of the town and, after a little, one 
falls in with the spirit of the place, rejoicing that 
the memories of Orleans are only of success and 
triumph and forgetting Rouen's dark chapter of 
defeat and death. 

In the morning we first go to the cathedral — 
an ornate and imposing church, though one that 
the critics have dealt with rather roughly. It faces 
the wide Rue Jeanne d'Arc — again Orleans' 
charmed name — and it seems to us that the whole 
vast structure might well be styled a memorial to 
the immortal Maid of France. The facade is 
remarkable for its Late-Gothic towers, nearly three 
hundred feet high, while between them to the rear 
rises the central spire, some fifty feet higher. There 
are three great portals beneath massive arches, rising 
perhaps one-fourth the height of the towers, and 
above each of these is an immense rose window. 

42 



THE CHATEAU DISTRICT 

Perhaps the design as a whole is not according to 
the best architectural tenets, but the cathedral 
seems grand to such unsophisticated critics as our- 
selves. Being a rather late restoration, it does not 
show the wear and tear of the ages, like so many of 
its ancient rivals, and perhaps loses a little charm on 
this account. The vast vaultlike interior is quite 
free from obstructions to one's vision and is lighted 
by windows of beautifully toned modern glass. 
These depict scenes in the life of Joan of Arc, 
beginning with the appearance of her heavenly mon- 
itors and ending with her martyrdom at the stake. 
The designing is of remarkably high order and the 
color toning is much more effective than one often 
finds in modern glass. There are a number of paint- 
ings and images, many of them referring to the ca- 
reer of the now venerated Maid. The usual gaudy 
chapels and altars of French cathedrals are in evi- 
dence, though none are especially interesting. 

Orleans has several other churches and all pay 
some tribute to the heroine of the town. A small 
part of St. Peter's dates from the ninth century, one 
of the few relics of antiquity to be found in Orleans. 
The Hotel de Ville, built about 1 530, has a beau- 
tiful marble figure of Joan in the court, and an 
equestrian statue of the Maid is in the Grand 
Salon of the building, representing her horse in the 

43 



THROUGH SUMMER PRANCE 

act of trampling a mortally wounded Englishman. 
Both of these statues are the work of Princess 
Marie of Orleans — a scion of the old royal family 
of France. The Hotel de Ville also recalls a 
memory of Mary Stuart; here in 1560 her boy- 
husband, Francis II., expired in the arms of his 
wife, and her career was soon transferred from 
the French court to its no less troubled and cruel 
contemporary in Scotland. The town possesses an 
unusually good museum, which includes a large his- 
torical collection, and the gallery contains a number 
of paintings and sculptures of real merit. Of 
course one will wish to see the house where the 
patron saint of the town lodged, and this may be 
found at No. 37 Rue de Tabour. There is also 
on the same street the Musee Jeanne d'Arc, which 
contains a number of relics and paintings relating 
to the heroine and her times. 

But for all the worship of Joan of Arc in 
Orleans, she was not a native of the place and actu- 
ally spent only a short time within the walls of 
the old city. The Maid was born in the little 
village of Domremy in Lorraine, some two hun- 
dred miles eastward, where her humble birthplace 
may still be seen and which we hope to visit when 
we make our next incursion into France. 



44 



Ill 

ORLEANS TO THE GERMAN BORDER 

We have no more delightful run in France than 
our easy jaunt from Orleans to Nevers. We still 
follow the Loire Valley, though the road only 
occasionally brings us in sight of the somewhat 
diminished river. The distance is but ninety-six 
miles over the most perfect of roads and we pro- 
ceed leisurely, often pausing to admire the land- 
scapes — beautiful beyond any ability of mine to 
adequately describe. The roadside resembles a 
well-kept lawn; it is bordered by endless rows of 
majestic trees and on either hand are fertile fields 
which show every evidence of the careful work of 
the farmer. The silken sheen of bearded wheat 
and rye is dotted with crimson poppies and starred 
with pale-blue cornflowers. At times the poppies 
have gained the mastery and burn like a spot of 
flame amidst the emerald-green of the fields. 
Patches of dark-red clover lend another color varia- 
tion, and here and there are dashes of bright yellow 
or gleaming white of buttercups and daisies. With 
such surroundings and on such a clear, exhilarat- 

45 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

ing day our preconceived ideals of the beauty of 
Summer France suffer no disenchantment. 

Cosne is an old river town now rather dominated 
by manufactories and here Pope Pius VII. so- 
journed when he came to France upon the neigh- 
borly invitation of Napoleon I. He stopped at the 
Hotel du Cerf, but we try the Moderne for 
luncheon, which proves unusually good. 

About three o'clock we reach Nevers and a 
sudden thunder shower determines us to stop for 
the night at the Hotel de France. Outside it is 
quite unpretending, though queer ornamental panels 
between the windows and a roof of moss-green 
tiles redeem it somewhat from the commonplace. 
We have no reason to repent our decision, for the 
rambling old inn is scrupulously clean and the ser- 
vice has the personal touch that indicates the 
watchful eye of a managing proprietor. We are 
somewhat surprised to see a white-clad chef very 
much in evidence about the hotel and even taking 
a lively interest in guests who have suffered a break- 
down and are wrestling with their car in the stable- 
yard garage. We learn that this chef is the pro- 
prietor, and his wife, an English woman, is the 
manageress. The combination is an effective one; 
English-speaking guests are made very much at 

46 



ORLEANS TO THE GERMAN BORDER 

home and the excellence of the meals is sufficient 
proof of the competence of the proprietor-chef. 

Nevers has a cathedral dating in part from the 
twelfth century, though the elaborate tower with 
its host of sculptured prophets, apostles and saints 
was built some three hundred years later. The 
most notable relic of mediaevalism in the town is 
the queer old Port du Croux, a fourteenth-century 
watch-tower which one time formed part of the 
fortifications. It is a noble example of mediaeval 
defense — a tall gateway tower with long lancet 
openings and two pointed turrets flanking the steep, 
tile-covered roof. The ducal palace and the Hotel 
de Ville are also interesting old-time structures, 
though neither is of great historic importance. The 
history of Nevers is in sharp contrast with the 
checkered career of its neighbor, Orleans, being 
quite uneventful and prosaic. It is a quiet place 
to-day, its chief industry being the potteries, which 
have been in existence some centuries. 

The next day, thirty miles on the road to Autun, 
we experience our first break-down in eighteen 
thousand miles of motoring in Europe — that is, a 
break-down that means we must abandon the car 
for the time. Near the little village of Tamnay- 
Chatillon an axle-rod breaks and a new one must 
be made before we can proceed. Our objective 

47 



THROUGH SUMMER PRANCE 

point, Dijon, is the nearest place where we will 
be likely to find facilities for repair and we resolve 
to go thither by train. We have been so delayed 
that train-time is past and we shall have to pass 
the night at the village inn. It is extremely annoy- 
ing at the time, though in retrospect we are glad 
of our experience with at least one very small coun- 
try road-house in France. The inn people spare 
no effort to make us as comfortable as possible and 
we have had many worse meals in good-sized cities 
than is served to us this evening. Our beds, though 
apparently clean, are not very restful, but we are 
too weary to be excessively critical. The next 
morning, leaving the crippled car in the stable-yard, 
we take the train for Dijon. The Captain carries 
the broken axle-rod as a pattern and soon after our 
arrival a workman is shaping a new one from a 
steel bar. And in this connection I might remark 
that we found the average French mechanic quick 
and intelligent, with almost an intuitive understand- 
ing of a piece of machinery. Our job proves slower 
than we anticipated; the work can be done by only 
one man at a time and it is not completed before 
midnight of the following day. 

In the meanwhile we have established ourselves 
at the Grand Hotel de la Cloche, a pretentious — 
and, as it proves, a very expensive stopping-place. 

48 



ORLEANS TO THE GERMAN BORDER 

We have large, well-furnished rooms which afford 
an outlook upon a small park fronting the hotel. 
Our enforced leisure allows us considerably more 
time to look about Dijon than we have been giving 
to such towns and we endeavor to make the most 
of it. The town is one of the military centers of 
France, being defended by no fewer than eight 
detached forts, and we see numerous companies of 
soldiers on the streets. 

The museum, we are assured, is the greatest 
"object of interest" in the city and, indeed, it comes 
up to the claims made for it. The municipal 
art gallery contains possibly the best provincial col- 
lection of paintings in France — an endless array of 
pictures of priceless value, representing the greatest 
names of French art. There is also a splen- 
did showing of sculpture, occupying five separate 
rooms. The, marble tombs of Philip the Brave 
and John the Fearless, old-time dukes of Burgundy, 
are wonderful creations. They were originally in 
the Church of Chartreuse, destroyed in 1 793, when 
the tombs were removed to the cathedral in a some- 
what damaged condition. They were later placed 
in the museum and restored as nearly as possible 
to their original state. Both have a multitude of 
marble statuettes, every one a distinct artistic study 
— some representing mourners for the deceased — 

49 



THROUGH SUMMER PRANCE 

and each little face has some peculiar and char- 
acteristic expression of grief. The strong contrast 
of white and black marbles is relieved by judicious 
gilding and, altogether, we count these the most 
elaborate and artistic mediaeval tombs we have 
seen, if we except the Percy monument at Beverly 
in England. The museum also has an important 
archaeological collection, including a number of 
historical relics found in the vicinity, for the city 
dates back to Roman times. The showing of 
coins, gems, vases, ivory, cabinets and jewelry would 
do credit to any metropolitan museum. And 
all this in a town of but seventy-five 
thousand people — which shows how far the French 
municipalities have advanced in such matters. Dijon 
is no exception in this regard, though other cities 
of the class may not quite equal this collection, 
which I have described in merest outline. 

Dijon has several churches of the first order, 
though none of them has any notable distinguishing 
feature. The Cathedral of St. Benigne is the old- 
est, dating in its present form from about 1280, 
though there are portions which go back still farther. 
It was originally built as an abbey church, but the 
remainder of the abbatial buildings have disap- 
peared. St. Michael's Church is some four hun- 
dred years later than the cathedral, and has, ac- 

60 



ORLEANS TO THE GERMAN BORDER 

cording to the guide-books, a Renaissance facade, 
though it seems to us to be better described as a 
Moorish adaptation of the Gothic style. At any 
rate, it is an inartistic and unattractive structure and 
illustrates the poor results often attained in too 
great an effort after the unusual. Notre Dame is 
about the same date as the cathedral, though it 
has been so extensively restored as to have quite 
a new appearance. Its most remarkable feature is 
its queer statuettes — nearly a hundred little figures 
contorted into endless expressions and attitudes — 
which serve as gargoyles. The churches of Dijon 
are not particularly noteworthy for their interiors 
and none has especially good windows. Our ex- 
tended sojourn in the city enables us to visit a 
number of shops, for which we have heretofore 
found little time. These are well-stocked and at- 
tractive and quite in keeping with a city of the 
size of Dijon. According to Herr Baedeker, the 
town is famous "for wine and corn, and its mustard 
and gingerbread enjoy a wide reputation.'* 

The Captain and myself take an early train 
for Tamnay-Chatillon and have the satisfaction of 
finding the new axle-rod a perfect fit. We enjoy 
the open car and the fine road more than ever 
after our enforced experience with the railway 
train. The country between Tamnay and Dijon 

51 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

is rolling and the road often winds up or down a 
great hill for two or three miles at a stretch, always 
with even and well-engineered gradients that in- 
sure an easy climb or a long exhilarating coast. 
There are many glorious panoramas from the hill- 
crests — wide reaches of hill and valley, with groves 
and vineyards and red-tiled villages nestling in 
wooded vales or lying on the sunny slopes. Most 
of the towns remain unknown to us by name, but 
the Captain points out Chateau Chinon clinging 
to a rather steep hillside and overshadowed by the 
vast ruined castle which once defended it. A 
portion of the old wall with three watch-towers 
still stands — the whole effect being very grim and 
ancient. Near the town of Pommard the hills 
are literally "vine-clad," — vineyards everywhere 
running up to the very edge of the town. 

The Hotel St. Louis et de la Poste at Autun 
does not present a very attractive exterior, but it 
proves a pleasant surprise and we are hungry enough 
to do justice to an excellent luncheon, having 
breakfasted in Dijon at five o'clock. Autun has 
an unusual cathedral — "a curious building of the 
transition period" — some parts of which go back 
as far as the tenth century. The beautiful Gothic 
spire — the first object to greet our eyes when ap- 
proaching the town — was built about 1470. Por- 

52 



ORLEANS TO THE GERMAN BORDER 

tions of the old fortifications still remain. St. An- 
drew's Gate, partly a restoration, is an imposing 
portal pierced by four archways and forms one 
of the main entrances. There is also the usual 
museum and Hotel de Ville to be found in all 
enterprising provincial towns of France. 

Beyond Autun the character of the country 
changes again; we come into a less prosperous 
section, intersected by stone fences which cut the 
rocky hillsides into small irregular fields. We pass 
an occasional bare-looking village and one or two 
ruined chateaus and we remark on the scarcity of 
ruins in France, so far as we have seen it, as 
compared with England. A more fertile and 
thriving country surrounds Dijon, which we reach 
in the late afternoon. 

We have had quite enough of Dijon, but we 
shall remain until morning; an early start should 
carry us well toward the German frontier before 
night. We find some terribly rough roads to 
Gray and Vesoul — macadam which has begun to 
disintegrate. The country grows quite hilly and 
while, in the words of the old hymn, "every pros- 
pect pleases," we are indeed tempted to add that 
"only man is vile." For the filthiness of some of 
the villages and people can only be designated as 
unspeakable; if I should describe in plain lang- 

53 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

uage the conditions we behold, my book might be 
excluded from the mails! The houses of these 
miserable little hamlets stretch in single file along 
both sides of the broad highway. In one end of 
the house lives the family and in the other the 
domestic animals — pigs, cows and donkeys. Along 
the road on each side the muck-piles are almost 
continuous and reach to the windows of the 
cottages. Recent rains have flooded the streets 
with seepage, which covers the road to a depth 
of two or three inches, and the odors may be 
imagined — if one feels adequate to such a task. 
The muck is drained into pools and cisterns 
from which huge wooden or iron pumps tower 
above the street. By means of these the malodo- 
rous liquid is elevated into wagon-tanks to be 
hauled away to the fields. And this work is usually 
done by the women! In fact, women are ac- 
corded equal privileges with a vengeance in this 
part of rural France — they outnumber the men in 
the fields and no occupation appears too heavy or 
degraded for them to engage in. We see many of 
the older ones herding domestic animals — or even 
geese and ducks — by the roadside. Sometimes it 
is only a single animal — a cow, donkey, goat or 
pig — that engages the old crone, who is usually 
knitting as well. The pigs, no doubt because of 

54 



ORLEANS TO THE GERMAN BORDER 

their Headstrong proclivities, are usually confined 
by a cord held by their keepers, and with one of 
these we have an amusing adventure. The pig be- 
comes unruly, heading straight for our car, and 
only a vigorous application of the brakes prevents 
disaster to the obstreperous brute. But the guar- 
dian of his hogship — who has been hauled around 
pretty roughly while hanging to the cord — is in a 
towering rage and screams no end of scathing 
language at us. "You, too, are pigs," is one of 
her compliments which the Captain translates, and 
he says it is just as well to let some of her remarks 
stand in the original! 

As we approach Remiremont, where we propose 
to stop for the night, we enter the great range of 
hills which form the boundary between France and 
Germany and which afford many fine vistas. 
Endless pine forests clothe the hillsides and deep 
narrow valleys slope away from the road which 
winds upward along the edges of the hills. 
Remiremont is a pleasant old frontier town lying 
along the Moselle River at the base of a fortified 
hill two thousand feet in height. It is cleaner 
than the average French town of ten thousand and 
clear streams of mountain water run alongside many 
of its streets. The Hotel du Cheval de Bronze 
seems a solid, comfortable old inn and we turn into 

55 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

the courtyard for our nightly stop. The courtyard 
immediately adjoins the hotel apartments on the 
rear and is not entirely free from objectionable 
odors — our only complaint against the Cheval de 
Bronze. Our rooms front on the street, the noise 
being decidedly preferable to the assortment of 
smells in the rear. The town has nothing to de- 
tain one, and is rather unattractive, despite its pleas- 
ing appearance from a distance. On the main 
street near our hotel are the arcades, which have 
a considerable resemblance to the famous rows of 
Chester. i 

We are awakened early in the morning by the 
tramp of a large company of soldiers along the 
street, for Remiremont, being so near the frontier, 
is heavily garrisoned. These French soldiers we 
have seen everywhere, in the towns and on the 
roads, enough of them to remind us that the country 
is really a vast military camp. They are rather 
undersized, as a rule, and their attire is often 
slouchy and worse for wear. Their bearing seems 
to us anything but soldierly as they shuffle along 
the streets. Perhaps we remember this the more 
because of the contrast we see in Germany a little 
later. A good authority, however, tells us that 
the French army is in a fine state of preparedness 

56 



ORLEANS TO THE GERMAN BORDER 

and would give a good account of itself if called 
into action. 

We are early away from Remiremont on a fine 
road winding among the pine-clad hills. Some 
sixteen miles out of the town we find a splendid 
hotel at Gerardmer on a beautiful little lake of 
the same name in the Vosges Forest, where we 
should no doubt have had quite different service 
from the Cheval de Bronze. We have no regrets, 
however, since Remiremont is worth seeing as a 
typical small frontier town. At Gerardmer we 
begin the long climb over the mountain pass which 
crosses the German border; there are several miles 
of the ascent and in some places the grades are 
steep enough to seriously heat the motor. We stop 
many times on the way and there is a clear little 
stream by the roadside from which we replenish 
the water in the heated engine. The air grows 
cooler and more bracing as we ascend and though 
it is a fine June day, we see banks of snow along 
the road. On either side are great pine trees, 
through which we catch occasional glimpses of 
wooded hills and verdant valleys lying far beneath 
us. Despite the cool air, flowers bloom along the 
road and the ascent, though rather strenuous, is a 
delightful one. 

At the summit we come to the customs offices 

57 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

of the two countries, a few yards apart. Here 
we bid farewell to France and slip across the border 
into the Fatherland, as its natives so love to call it. 
A wonderful old official, who seems to embody 
all the dignity and power of the empire he serves, 
comes out of the customs house. His flowing gray 
beard is a full yard long and the stem of his 
mighty porcelain pipe is still longer. He is clad 
in a faultless uniform and wears a military cap 
bespangled with appropriate emblems — altogether, 
a marvel of that official glory in which the Germans 
so delight. His functions, however, do not cor- 
respond with his personal splendor, for he only of- 
ficially countersigns our Royal Automobile Club 
passport, delivers us a pair of number plates and, 
lastly, collects a fee of some fifteen marks. He 
gives us a certificate showing that we are now en- 
titled to travel the highways of the empire for two 
weeks, and should we remain longer we shall have 
to pay an additional fee on leaving the country. 
The Captain waves an approved military adieu, to 
which the official solemnly responds and we set out 
in search of adventure in the land of the Kaiser. 



58 



IV 

COLMAR TO OBERAMMERGAU 

Had we crossed a sea instead of an imaginary 
dividing line we could hardly have found a more 
abrupt change in the characteristics of people and 
country than we discover when we descend into 
the broad green valley of the Rhine. We have 
a series of fine views as we glide down the easy 
grades and around the sweeping curves of the 
splendid road that leads from the crest to the 
wide plain along the river — glimpses of towns and 
villages lying far beneath, beyond long stretches of 
wooded hills. On our way we meet peasants 
driving teams of huge horses hitched to heavy 
logging wagons. The horses go into a panic at 
the sight of the car and the drivers seem even more 
panicky than the brutes; it is quite apparent that 
the motor is not so common in Germany as in 
England and France. 

The province of Alsace, by which we enter 
Germany, was held by France from the time of 
Napoleon until 1871, but it never entirely lost its 
German peculiarities during the French occupation. 

59 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

Its villages and farmhouses are distinctly Teutonic, 
though the larger towns show more traces of French 
influence. ' Colmar, some twenty miles from the 
border, is the first city — a place of about forty 
thousand people and interesting to Americans as 
the birthplace of the sculptor, Bartholdi, who de- 
signed the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor. 
It is a substantially built town with an enormous 
Gothic church and its museum has a famous col- 
lection of pictures by early German masters. 

A few miles from Colmar we come to the Rhine, 
so famed in German song and story, a green, rush- 
ing flood that seems momentarily to threaten the 
destruction of the pontoon bridge which bears us 
across. Beyond the river the level but poorly 
surfaced road leads to Freiburg, a handsome city 
of about seventy-five thousand people. It is a 
noted manufacturing town and has an ancient uni- 
versity with about two thousand students. Its 
cathedral is one of the finest Gothic structures in 
Germany, the great tower, three hundred and eighty 
feet in height, being the earliest and most perfect 
of its kind. The windows of fourteenth-century 
glass are particularly fine and there are many re- 
markable paintings of a little later date. The city 
has other important churches and many beautiful 
public buildings and monuments. Indeed, Freiburg 

60 



COLMAR TO OBERAMMERGAU 

is a good example of the neatness, cleanliness and 
civic pride that prevails in most of the larger Ger- 
man cities. It has many excellent hotels and we 
have a well-served luncheon at the Victoria. We 
should stop for the day at Freiburg were it not 
for our unexpected delay at Dijon; we must hasten 
if we are to reach Oberammergau in time for our 
reservations. In the three remaining daylight hours 
we make a swift run to Tuttlingen, some sixty 
miles eastward, passing several small villages and 
two good-sized towns, Neustadt and Donaueschin- 
gen, on the way. The latter is near the head 
waters of the Danube, and from here we follow 
the river to Tuttlingen. We pass through a 
beautifully wooded country and several inns along 
the way indicate that this section is a frequented 
pleasure resort. There are many charming pano- 
ramas from the road, which in places swings 
around the hillsides some distance above the 
river. 

Had we known the fate in store for us at 
Tuttlingen, we should surely have stopped at one 
of the hotels which we hastily passed in our dash 
for that town. But we reach it just at dusk — a 
place of about fifteen thousand people — and turn 
in rather dubiously at the unattractive Post Hotel. 
If the Post is a fair sample of the country inns of 

61 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

Germany, the tourist should keep clear of country 
mns when possible. On entering we meet an as- 
sortment of odors not especially conducive to good 
appetite for the evening meal, and this proves of 
the kind that requires a good appetite. We are 
hungry, but not hungry enough to eat the Post's 
fare with anything like relish and we are haunted 
by considerable misgivings about the little we do 
consume. The Post, however, does not lack pat- 
ronage, though it seems to come mainly from Ger- 
man commercial men who are seeking trade in the 
thriving town. 

We are away early in the morning, following a 
rough, neglected road some dozen miles to Lud- 
wigshaven at the head of Lake Constance, or the 
Boden See, as the Germans style it. A new high- 
way leading down to the lake shore is not yet open, 
though nearly ready, and we descend over a tempo- 
rary road which winds among tree stumps and 
drops down twenty per cent grades for a couple of 
miles. We are thankful that we have only the 
descent to make; I doubt whether our forty-horse 
engine would ever have pulled us up the "bank," 
as a Yorkshire man would describe it. 

But having reached the level of the lake, we find 
a splendid road closely following the shore for forty 
miles and affording views of some of the finest and 

62 



COLMAR TO OBERAMMERGAU 

most famous scenery in Europe. In all our journey- 
ings we have had few more glorious runs. The 
clear balmy June day floods everything with light 
and color. The lake lies still and blue as the 
heavens above, and beyond its shining expanse rise 
the snow-capped forms of the Swiss Alps, their 
rugged ranks standing sharply against the silvery 
horizon. At their feet stretches the green line of 
the shore and above it the dense shadows of the 
pines that cover the slopes to the snow line. It is 
a scene of inspiring beauty that one sees to best ad- 
vantage from the open road. Near at hand green 
fields stretch to the hills, no great distance away, 
and the belated fruit-tree blossoms load the air with 
perfume. Hay-making is in progress in the little 
fields — women swing the scythes or handle the 
rakes and pitchforks while staid old cows draw the 
heavy, awkward carts. There are several pleasant 
little towns along the shore, rather neater and cleaner 
than the average German village, though even these 
are not free from occasional touches of filthiness. 
Near the center of the lake is Friedrichshafen, a 
popular resort with numerous hotels. There is a 
beautiful drive along the lake, bordered with shrubs 
and trees, and fronting on this is the comfortable- 
looking Deutsches Haus, surrounded by gardens 
which extend to the shore. We remember the 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

Deutsches Haus particularly, since on its glass-en- 
closed veranda we are served with an excellent 
luncheon. As we resume our journey, feeling at 
peace with the world, and open up a little on the 
smooth lakeside road, the Captain exclaims: 

"If I had all the money I could possibly want, 
do you know what Fd do? I'd just buy a motor, 
don't you know, and do nothing on earth but tour 
about Europe!" 

And we all agree that under such conditions and 
on such a day his proposed vocation seems an ideal 
one. 

Friedrichshafen, I should have said, was the home 
of Count Zeppelin of airship fame, and as we 
passed through the town his immense craft was being 
made ready for an experimental trip. It was then 
attracting much attention in Germany and was the 
precourser of the only line of commercial airships 
now in existence. 

Lindau, a small resort built on an island about 
three hundred yards from the shore, marks the 
point of our departure from Lake Constance. We 
enter the town over a narrow causeway which con- 
nects it with the main road, but find little to detain 
us. We climb the steep winding road leading out 
of the valley and for the remainder of the day our 
course wends among the foothills of the Bavarian 

64 



COLMAR TO OBERAMMERGAU 

Alps. It proves a delightful run; we witness con- 
stantly changing displays of color and glorious ef- 
fects of light and shadow. Thunder storms are 
raging in the mountains and at intervals they sweep 
down and envelop our road in a dash of summer 
rain. Above us tower the majestic Alps; in places 
the dazzling whiteness of the snow still lies against 
the barren rocks or amidst the dense green of the 
pines, while above the summits roll blue-gray cumu- 
lus clouds glowing with vivid lightning or brilliant 
with occasional bursts of sunshine. Near at hand 
stretch green meadows of the foothills, variegated 
with great splashes of blue or yellow flowers as 
though some giant painter had swept his brush 
across the landscape. The effect is shown with 
striking fidelity in the picture by the late John Mac- 
Whirter R. A. which I have reproduced, though 
it is quite impossible on so small a scale to give an 
adequate idea of the original canvas — much less of 
the enchanting scene itself. 

Among the foothills and often well up the 
mountainsides are the characteristic chalets of Tyrol 
and an occasional ruined castle crowns some seem- 
ingly inaccessible rock. We pass several quaint 
little towns and many isolated houses, all very dif- 
ferent from any we have seen elsewhere. The 
houses are mostly of plaster and often ornamented 

65 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

with queer designs and pictures in brilliant colors. 
The people are picturesque, too; the women and 
girls dress in the peculiar costume of the country; 
the men wear knitted jackets and knee pants with 
silver buckles and their peaked hats are often deco- 
rated with a feather or two. 

Our road averages fair, though a few short 
stretches are desperately bad — this unevenness we 
have noted in German roads generally. In one place 
where the rain has been especially heavy we 
plunge through a veritable quagmire, and we find 
spots so rough and stony as to make very uncom- 
fortable going. We finally strike the fine highway 
which follows the River Lech and brings us into 
the mountain town of Fussen. It is a snug little 
place of some five thousand people, nestling in a 
narrow valley through which rushes a swift, emer- 
ald-green river. The Bayerischer-Hof proves a 
pleasant surprise; one of the cleanest, brightest and 
best-conducted inns we have found anywhere. Our 
large, well-lighted rooms afford a magnificent view 
of the snow-capped mountains, which seem only a 
little distance away. The landlord, a fine-looking, 
full-bearded native who speaks English fluently, 
gives the touch of personal attention that one so 
much appreciates in the often monotonous round of 
hotel life. To the rear of the hotel is a beer-garden 

66 




w 

CO 

H 

W 
H 

CO 



COLMAR TO OBERAMMERGAU 

where brilliant lights and good music in the evening 
attract the guests and townspeople in considerable 
numbers. Several other American motor parties 
stop at the hotel and we especially notice one French 
car because it carries nine people — and it is not a 
large car, either! The Bayerischer-Hof is first-class 
in every particular, and we find when we come to 
depart that the charges are first-class, too. The 
Captain is exasperated when we are asked sixty 
cents per gallon for "benzin" and says we will 
chance doing better on the way — a decision which, 
as it happens, causes us no little grief and some 
expense. 

Fussen has an impressive Gothic castle — a vast, 
turreted, towered, battlemented affair with gray 
walls and red-tiled roof which looms over the 
town from the slope above the river. I fear, though, 
that the castle is a good deal of a sham, for there 
are spots where the stucco has fallen from the walls, 
revealing wooden lath beneath, and while in Fus- 
sen they call it a "thirteenth-century" building, 
Baedeker gives its date as two or three hundred 
years later. It was never intended as a defensive 
structure, being originally built as the residence of 
the Bishop of Augsburg. It is now occupied by 
the district court and the interior is hardly worth a 
visit, 

67 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

Oberammergau lies over the mountain to the 
east of Fussen, scarcely ten miles away in a direct 
line, but to reach it we are compelled to go by the 
way of Schongau, about four times as far. We pur- 
sue a narrow, sinuous mountain road, very muddy 
in places. We have been warned of one excep- 
tionally bad hill — a twenty-five per cent grade, ac- 
cording to the Royal Automobile Club itinerary — 
but we give the matter little thought. It proves a 
straight incline of half a mile and about midway 
the sharp ascent our motor gasps and comes to a 
sudden stop. We soon ascertain that the angle 
is too great for the gasoline to flow from the nearly 
empty tank, and we regret the Captain's economy 
at Fussen. A number of peasants gather about us 
to stare at our predicament, but they show nothing 
of the amusement that an American crowd would 
find in such a situation. A woman engages the 
Captain in conversation and informs us that she is 
the owner of a good team of horses, which will be 
the best solution of our difficulties. "Wie viel?" 
Seventy-five marks, or about eighteen dollars, looks 
right to her and she sticks to her price, too. Her 
only response to the Captain's indignant protests is 
that she keeps a road-house at the top of the hill, 
where he can find her if he decides we need her 
services. And she departs in the lordly manner of 

68 



COLMAR TO OBERAMME)RGAU 

one who has delivered an ultimatum from which 
there is no appeal. A peasant tells us that the 
woman makes a good income fleecing stranded 
motorists and that the German automobile clubs 
have published warnings against her. He says that 
a farmer near by will help us out for the modest 
sum of ten marks and offers to bring him to the 
scene; he also consoles us by telling us that five 
cars besides our own have stalled on the hill during 
the day. The farmer arrives before long with a 
spanking big team, which gives us the needed lift, 
and the grade soon permits the motor to get in its 
work. 

We reach Oberammergau about two o'clock, 
only to find another instance where the Captain's 
economical tendency has worked to our disad- 
vantage. He had declined to pay the price asked 
by Cook's agency in London for reservation of 
rooms and seats for the Passion Play and had ar- 
ranged for these with a German firm, Shenker & 
Co. at Freiburg. On inquiring at the office of the 
concern in the village we find no record of our 
reservations and no tickets to be had. "Shenker is 
surely a 'rotter,' " says the Captain, immensely dis- 
gusted, and it requires no small effort to find quar- 
ters, but we at last secure tiny rooms in a peasant's 
cottage in the outskirts of the village. Tickets we 

69 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

finally obtain by an earnest appeal at Cook's of- 
fices, though at considerable premium. 

Our quarters are almost primitive in their plain- 
ness, but they are tolerably clean; the meals, served 
in a large dining-hall not far away, are only fair. 
The people of Oberammergau, our landlord says, 
face a difficult problem in caring for the Passion 
Play crowds. These come but once in ten years 
and during the intervening time visitors to the town 
are comparatively few. Yet the villagers must care 
for the great throngs of play years, though many 
apartments and lodging-houses must stand empty 
during the interval and the only wonder is that 
charges are so moderate. 

The regular population of Oberammergau is less 
than two thousand, though during the play it pre- 
sents the appearance of a much larger place. The 
houses are nearly all of the prevailing Bavarian 
style, with wide, overhanging eaves and white walls 
often decorated with brightly colored frescoes. 
Through the center of the village rushes the Ammer, 
a clear, swift mountain stream which sometimes 
works havoc when flooded. The church is modern, 
but its Moorish tower and rococo decorations do 
not impress us as especially harmonious and there 
is little artistic or pleasing in the angular lines of 
the new theatre. The shops keep open on every 

70 




p 

< 

o 

H 

a 
« 

« 
O 



COLMAR TO OBERAMMERGAU 

day of the week, including Sunday, until nearly 
midnight. These are filled with carvings, pottery, 
postcards and endless trinkets for the souvenir-seek- 
ing tourist and perhaps yield more profit to the 
town than the play itself. There are several good- 
sized inns, but one has no chance of lodging in one 
of them unless quarters have been engaged months 
in advance — not very practicable when coming by 
motor. 

One will best appreciate the magnificent situation 
of the village from a vantage-point on one of the 
mountains which encompass the wide green valley 
on every side. On the loftiest crag of all gleams a 
tall white cross — surely a fit emblem to first greet 
the stranger who comes to Oberammergau. In the 
center of the vale is the village, the clean white- 
walled houses grouped irregularly about the huge 
church, which forms the social center of the place. 
The dense green of the trees, the brighter green of 
the window-shutters, the red and gray-tile roofs and 
the swift river cleaving its way through the town, 
afford a pleasing variety of color to complete the 
picture. The surrounding green pastures with the 
herds of cattle are the property of the villagers — 
nearly every family of this thrifty community is a 
landholder. The scene is a quiet, peaceful one, such 

71 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

as suits the character of the people who inhabit this 
lovely vale. 

And these same villagers, simple and unpreten- 
tious as they are, will hardly fail to favorably impress 
the stranger. The Tyrolese costume is everywhere 
in evidence and there is a large predominance of 
full-bearded men, for the play-actors are not al- 
lowed to resort to wigs and false whiskers. They 
exhibit the peculiarities of the Swiss rather than 
the Germans and their manners and customs are 
simple and democratic in the extreme. While the 
head of the community is nominally the burgo- 
master, the real government is vested in the house- 
holders. The freedom from envy and strife is in- 
deed remarkable; quarrels are unknown and very 
few of the inhabitants are so selfish as to seek for 
honor or wealth. The greatest distinction that can 
come to any of them is an important part in the 
play; yet there is never any contention or bitterness 
over the allotments. It would be hard to find else- 
where a community more seriously happy, more 
healthful or morally better than Oberammergau. 

I shall not write at length of the world-famous 
play. It has been so well and widely described that 
I could add but little new. It is interesting as the 
sole survival of a vast number of mediaeval miracle 
plays, though it has cast off the coarser features and 

72 



COLMAR TO OBERAMMERGAU 

progressed into a really artistic production. I must 
first of all plead my own ignorance of the true 
spirit and marvelous beauty of the play ere I saw 
it. I thought it the crude production of a com- 
munity of ignorant peasants who were shrewd 
enough to turn their religion into a money-making 
scheme and I freely declared that I would scarcely 
cross the street to witness it. But when the great 
chorus of three hundred singers appeared in the 
prelude that glorious Sunday morning, I began to 
realize how mistaken I had been. And as the play 
progressed I was more and more impressed with 
its solemn sincerity, its artistic staging and its 
studied harmony of coloring. Indeed, in the last 
named particular it brought vividly to mind the 
rich yet subdued tones of Raphael and Michael 
Angelo, and the effect of the rare old tapestries 
one occasionally finds in the museums. The tab- 
leaux in many cases closely followed some famous 
picture — as Leonardo Da Vinci's "Last Supper" or 
Rubens' "Descent from the Cross," — all perfectly 
carried out in coloring and spirit. The costumes 
were rich and carefully studied, giving doubtless a 
true picture of the times of Christ. The acting was 
the perfection of naturalness and the crude and 
ridiculous features of the early miracle plays — and, 
not so very long ago, of the Passion Play itself — 

73 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

have been gradually dropped until scarce a trace 
of them remains. The devil no longer serves 
the purpose of the clown, having altogether disap- 
peared; and even the tableau of Jonah and the 
whale, though given in the printed programs, was 
omitted, evidently from a sense of its ridiculousness. 
I found myself strangely affected by the simple story 
of the play. One indeed might imagine that he 
saw a real bit of the ancient world were it not for 
the great steel arches bending above him and the 
telephone wires stretching across the blue sky over 
the stage. 

But I think the best proof of the real human in- 
terest of the play is that it held the undivided at- 
tention of five thousand spectators for eight long 
hours on a spring day whose perfect beauty was a 
strong lure to the open sky. And it did this not 
only for one day but for weeks, later in the sum- 
mer requiring an almost continuous daily perform- 
ance. And, having seen it once, I have no doubt 
the greater number of spectators would gladly wit- 
ness it again, for so great a work of art cannot be 
grasped from a single performance. 

Of course Oberammergau has not escaped the 
critics, but I fancy the majority of them are, like 
myself before our visit to the town, quite ignorant 
of the facts as well as the true spirit of the people. 

74 



COLrMAR TO OBERAMMERGAU 

The commonest charge is that the play is a money- 
making scheme on the part of the promoters, but the 
fact is that the people are poor and remain poor. 
The actual profits from the play are not large and 
these are devoted to some public work, as the new 
theatre, the hospital and the good cause of public 
roads. The salaries paid the players are merely 
nominal, in no case exceeding a few hundred marks. 
The only source of private profit comes from the 
sale of souvenirs and the entertaining of visitors, but 
this can not be great, considering that the harvest 
comes only once in a decade. The play is "com- 
mercialized" only to the extent of placing it on a 
paying basis and if this were not the case there 
could be no performance. The very fear of this 
charge kept the villagers up to 1910 from placing 
their tickets and reservations in the hands of Cook 
and other tourist agencies, though they were finally 
persuaded to yield in this as an accommodation to 
the public. The most effective answer to the asser- 
tion that the chief end of the play is money-making 
may be found in the constant refusal of the villagers 
to produce it elsewhere than in Oberammergau. 
Offers of fabulous sums from promoters in England 
and the United States for the production of the play 
in the large centers of these countries have been 
steadily refused, and the actors have pursued their 

75 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

humble avocations in their quiet little town quite 
content with their meager earnings. Nor have they 
yielded to the temptation to give the play oftener, 
though it would be immensely profitable if pre- 
sented every year or even every alternate year. 

We leave the little mountain-girdled valley with 
a new conception of its Passion Play and its unique, 
happy people. The majestic spectacle we have 
witnessed during our stay will linger with us so long 
as life shall last and it can never be otherwise than 
a pleasant and inspiring memory. 



76 



V 

BAVARIA AND THE. RHINE 

Munich is sixty miles north of Oberammergau 
and the road is better than the average of German 
highways. For some distance out of the village we 
pursue a winding course among the mountains, 
which affords some glorious vistas of wooded vales 
and snow-capped Alps while we descend to the 
wide plain surrounding Munich. We pass through 
several sleepy-looking villages, though they prove 
sufficiently wide-awake to collect a toll of two or 
three marks for the privilege of traversing their 
streets. A well-surfaced highway bordered by 
trees leads us into the broad streets of Munich, 
where we repair to the Continental Hotel. 

We remain here several days and have the op- 
portunity of closely observing the Bavarian capital. 
We unhesitatingly pronounce it the cleanest, most 
artistic and most substantial city we have ever seen. 
A number of drives through the main streets and 
environs reveal little in the nature of slums; even 
the poorest quarters of the city are solidly built and 
clean, and next to its beautiful buildings and artistic 

77 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

monuments the cleanliness of Munich seems to us 
most noteworthy. Perhaps the ladies should be 
given credit for this — not the members of the wo- 
men's clubs, who are often supposed to influence 
civic affairs for the better, but the old women who 
do the sweeping and scrubbing of the streets, for 
we see them in every part of the city. This spick- 
and-span cleanliness of the larger German cities 
forms a sharp contrast to the filth and squalor of 
the villages, some of which are even worse than any- 
thing we saw in France — but of this more anon. 

Munich has a population of more than a half 
million, and having been built within the last cen- 
tury, is essentially modern. It has many notable 
public buildings, mainly in the German Gothic 
style — the Rathhaus, with its queer clock which 
sets a number of life-size automatons in motion 
every time it strikes the hour, being the most fa- 
miliar to tourists. The Royal Palace and the Na- 
tional Theatre are splendid structures and the latter 
is famous for grand opera, in which the Germans 
take great delight. Munich ranks as an important 
art capital, having several galleries and museums, 
among which the Bavarian National and German 
Museum are the most notable. There are num- 
erous public gardens and parks, all kept with the 
trim neatness that characterizes the entire city. And 

78 



BAVARIA AND TH© RHINE 

one must not forget the beer-gardens, which play 
so large a part in German life; the whole population 
frequents these open-air drinking-places, where beer 
and other refreshments are served at small tables 
underneath the trees. The best feature of these is 
the excellent music which is an invariable accom- 
paniment and Munich is famous for its musicians. 
The most proficient of these think it no detraction 
to perform in the beer-gardens, which are attended 
by the best people of all classes; students, artists, 
professors, business and military men make up a 
large proportion of the patrons of these resorts. The 
gardens are conducted by the big brewers and 
Munich beer is famous the world over. There is 
comparatively little manufacturing in the city, though 
we noted one exceptionally large iron foundry and 
a great engine works. 

During our stay we took occasion to have our 
car overhauled at a public garage and were im- 
pressed with the intelligence and efficiency of the 
German mechanics. They were usually large, fine- 
looking fellows, always good-natured and accommo- 
dating. The wages paid them are quite small as 
compared with those of American mechanics, being 
about one-third as much. At four o'clock in the 
afternoon everything stops for a quarter of an hour 
while the workmen indulge in a pot of beer and a 

79 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

slice or two of black bread. We saw this in a 
large foundry, where several hundred men were em- 
ployed and were told that the custom is universal. 

The Captain, while admitting that most of the 
German workmen were very good fellows, often 
treated them in a supercilious manner that I fear 
sometimes worked against our interests. In fact, 
the Captain's dislike of everything German was de- 
cidedly pronounced and the sight of a company of 
soldiers usually put him in an ill humor. 'Til have 
to take a crack at those fellows some time, myself," 
he would say, in the firm conviction that war be- 
tween England and Germany was inevitable. 

He was not put in a better state of feeling to- 
wards our Teutonic hosts when he came to pay the 
bill at the Continental. Through carelessness un- 
usual on his part, he neglected to have an iron-clad 
understanding when he engaged accommodations and 
we had to suffer in consequence. He made a vig- 
orous protest without appreciable effect on the 
suave clerk, who assured us that the rates of the 
Continental were quite like the laws of the Medes 
and the Persians. They were high — yes; but only 
persons of quality were received. Indeed, a prin- 
cess and a baroness were among the guests at that 
moment and he hinted that many applicants were 
turned away because their appearance did not 

80 



BAVARIA AND THE. RHINE 

meet the requirements of the Continental. "We 
just look them over," said the clerk, "and if we 
don't like them we tell them we are full." All of 
which the Captain translated to us, though I should 
judge from his vehemence in replying to the clerk 
that he used some language which he did not re- 
peat — perhaps it had no equivalent in English. 
But it was all to no purpose; we paid the bill and 
were free to get whatever comfort we could from 
the reflection that we had been fellow-guests with 
a princess. "I saw her one day," said the Cap- 
tain. "She was smoking a cigarette in the parlor 
and I offered her one of mine, which she declined, 
though she talked with me very civilly for a few 
minutes." 

We start rather late in the day with Ulm and 
Stuttgart as objective points. The weather is fickle 
and the numerous villages through which we pass 
would be disgusting enough in the sunshine, but 
they fairly reek in the drizzling rain. The streets 
are inches deep in filth and we drive slowly to avoid 
plastering the car — though the odors would induce 
us to hasten if it were possible. Along the high- 
road stretch the low thatched cottages; each one 
it half stable and the refuse is often piled above the 
small windows. We dare not think of our plight 
if a tire should burst as we drive gingerly along, 

81 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

but we fortunately escape such disaster. Every- 
where in these villages we see groups of sturdy chil- 
dren — "race suicide" does not trouble Germany, 
nor does the frightfully insanitary conditions of their 
homes seem to have affected them adversely. On 
the contrary, they are fat, healthy-looking rascals 
who — the Captain declares — scream insulting epi- 
thets at us. On all sides, despite the rather inclem- 
ent weather, we see women in the fields, pulling 
weeds or using heavy, mattock-shaped hoes. We 
even see old crones breaking rock for road-work and 
others engaged in hauling muck from the villages 
to the fields. Men are more seldom seen at work 
— what their occupation is we can only surmise. 
They cannot be caring for the children, all of whom 
seem to be running the streets. Possibly they are 
washing the dishes. But, facetiousness aside, it is 
probable that the millions of young men who are 
compelled to do army service for three years leave 
more work for the women at home. The railway 
traveler in Germany sees little of the conditions I 
have described in these smaller villages; few of 
them are on the railroad and the larger towns and 
tourist centers are usually cleanly. 

The dominating feature of Ulm is the cathedral, 
whose vast bulk looms over the gray roofs of the 
houses crowding closely around it. It is the second 

82 



BAVARIA AND THE) RHINE 

largest church in Germany and has one of the finest 
organs in existence. The great central spire is the 
loftiest Gothic structure in the world, rising to a 
height of five hundred and twenty-eight feet, which 
overtops even Cologne. It has rather a new ap- 
pearance, as a complete restoration was finished 
only a few years ago. The cathedral has made 
Ulm a tourist center and this no doubt accounts 
for the numerous hotels of the town. We have a 
very satisfactory luncheon at the Munster, though 
the charge startles us a little. We cannot help 
thinking that some of these inns have a special 
schedule for the man with an automobile — 
rating him as an American millionaire, who, accord- 
ing to the popular notion in Germany, is endowed 
with more money than brains. 

From Ulm we pursue a poor road along the 
River Fils to Stuttgart, making slow progress 
through the numerous villages. The streets are 
thronged with children who delight in worrying our 
driver by standing in the road until we are nearly 
upon them. The Captain often addresses vigorous 
language to the provoking urchins, only to be an- 
swered by an epithet or a grimace. 

Stuttgart is a clean, well-built city with large 
commercial enterprises. We see several American 
flags floating from buildings, for many Stuttgart 

83 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

concerns have branches in the States. It is a fa- 
mous publishing center and its interest in books is 
evidenced by its splendid library, which contains 
more than a half million volumes. Among these is 
a remarkable collection of bibles, representing eight 
thousand editions in over one hundred languages. 
There are the usual museums and galleries to be 
found in a German city of a quarter of a million 
people and many fine monuments and memorials 
grace the streets and parks. The population is 
largely Protestant, which probably accounts for the 
absence of a church of the first magnitude. We 
stop at the old-fashioned Marquardt Hotel, which 
proves very good and moderate in rates. 

The next day we cover one hundred and sixty 
miles of indifferent road to Frankfort, going by the 
way of Karlsruhe, Heidelberg and Darmstadt. We 
come across a few stretches of modern macadam, 
but these aggregate an insignificant proportion of 
the distance. The villages exhibit the same unat- 
tractive characteristics of those we passed yesterday. 
Many have ancient cobblestone pavements full of 
chuck-holes; in others the streets are muddy and 
filthy beyond description. It is Sunday and the 
people are in their best attire; work is suspended 
everywhere — quite the opposite of what we saw 
in France. The country along our route is level 

84 



BAVARIA AND THE! RHINE 

and devoid of interest. From Karlsruhe we follow 
the course of the Rhine, though at some distance 
from the river itself. We pass through several for- 
ests which the government carefully conserves — in 
favorable contrast with our reckless and wasteful 
destruction of trees in America. There is much 
productive land along our way and the fields of 
wheat and rye are as fine as we have ever seen. 
But for all this the country lacks the trim, parklike 
beauty of England and the sleek prosperity and 
bright color of France. 

Heidelberg, thirty miles north of Karlsruhe, is 
a town of nearly fifty thousand people. The uni- 
versity, the oldest and most famous school in the 
empire, is not so large as many in America, having 
but sixteen hundred students in all departments. It 
has, however, an imposing array of buildings, some 
of these dating from the fourteenth century, when 
the school was founded. The town is picturesquely 
situated on the Neckar, which is crossed by a high 
bridge borne on massive arches. There is a fine 
view down the river from this bridge and one which 
we pause to contemplate. From the bridge we 
also get a good view of the town and the ancient 
castle which dominates the place from a lofty hill. 
Ruined castles, we have found, are as rare in Ger- 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

many, outside the Rhine region, as they are com- 
mon in England. 

We reach Frankfort at dusk, more weary than 
we have been in many a day. The roads have 
been as trying as any we have traversed in Europe 
for a like distance, and these, with the cobblestone 
pavements, have been responsible for an unusual 
amount of tire trouble, which has not tended to 
alleviate our weariness or improve our tempers. 
The Carlton Hotel looks good and proves quite as 
good as it looks. It is the newest hotel in the city, 
having been opened within a year by the well-known 
Ritz-Carlton Corporation. In construction, equip- 
ment and service it is up to the highest Continental 
standard — with prices to correspond. 

One would require several days to visit the 
points of interest in Frankfort, but our plans do not 
admit of much leisurely sightseeing. It is one of 
the oldest of German cities, its records running back 
to the time of Charlemagne in 793. We shall 
have to content ourselves with a drive about the 
principal streets and an outside view of the most 
important buildings. Chief among these is the mag- 
nificent opera house, the railway station — said to 
be the finest on the Continent — the library, the 
Stadel Museum, the "Schauspielhaus," or new 
theatre, and the municipal buildings. The Cathe- 

86 




GOETHE'S HOUSE-FRANKFORT 



BAVARIA AND THE RHINE 

dral of St. Bartholemew is the oldest church, dating 
from 1235, but architecturally it does not rank 
with Cologne or Ulm. The interior has a number 
of important paintings and frescoes. St. Peter's, 
the principal Protestant church, is of the modern 
Renaissance style with an ornate tower two hun- 
dred and fifty feet in height. 

There is one shrine in Frankfort that probably 
appeals to a greater number of tourists than any 
of the monumental buildings we have named — the 
plain old house where the poet Goethe was born 
in 1 749 and where he lived during his earlier years. 
Goethe occupies a place in German literature anal- 
ogous only to that of Shakespeare in our own and 
we may well believe that this house is as much ven- 
erated in the Fatherland as the humble structure in 
Stratford-on-Avon is revered in England. It has 
been purchased by a patriotic society and restored 
as nearly as possible to its original condition and 
now contains a collection of relics connected with 
the poet — books, original manuscripts, portraits and 
personal belongings. The custodian shows us about 
with the officiousness and pride of his race and re- 
lates many anecdotes of the great writer, which are 
duly translated by the Captain. While it is hard 
for us to become enthusiastic over a German writer 
about whom we know but little, it is easy to see 

87 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

that the patriotic native might find as much senti- 
ment in the Goethe house as we did in Abbotsford 
or Alloway. 

It is only a short run from Frankfort to Mayence, 
where we begin the famous Rhine Valley trip. 
We pause for luncheon at the excellent Hotel 
d'Angleterre, which overlooks the broad river. The 
city, declares Herr Baedeker, is one of the most 
interesting of Rheinish towns and certainly one of 
the oldest, for it has a continuous history from 368, 
at which time Christianity was already flourishing. 
It figured extensively in the endless church and civil 
wars that raged during the middle ages, and was 
captured by the French in 1689 and 1792. After 
the latter fall it was ceded to France, which, how- 
ever, retained it but a few years. Formerly it was 
one of the most strongly fortified towns in the king- 
dom, but its walls and forts have been destroyed, 
though it still is the seat of a garrison of seventy- 
five hundred soldiers. It has a cathedral of first 
importance, founded as early as 400, though few 
traces of the original building can be found. A 
notable feature is a pair of bronze doors executed 
in 988, illustrating historic events of that time. But 
the greatest distinction of Mayence is that Johann 
Gutenberg, the father of modern printing, was born 
here near the end of the fourteenth century. At 

88 




g 
£ 

w 

X 
H 

o 

2 

w 
o 

2 



BAVARIA AND THE) RHINE 

least this is the general opinion of the savants, though 
there be those who dispute it. However, there is 
no doubt that he died in the city about 1468; 
neither is it disputed that he established his first 
printing shop in Mayence, and did much important 
work in the town. The famous Gutenberg Bible, 
a copy of which sold recently for $50,000, was 
executed here about 1450. A bronze statue of 
the famous printer by Thorwaldsen stands in front 
of the cathedral. 

The fifty or sixty miles between Mayence and 
Coblenz comprise the most picturesque section of 
the Rhine, so famous in song and legend, and our 
road closely follows the river for the whole dis- 
tance. The really impressive scenery begins at 
Bingen, ten miles west of Mayence, where we en- 
ter the Rhine Gorge. On either side of the river 
rise the clifflike hills — literally vine-covered, for the 
steep slopes have been terraced and planted with 
vineyards to the very tops. Our road keeps to the 
north of the river and is often overhung by rocky 
walls, while far above we catch glimpses of ivy- 
clad ruins surmounting the beetling crags. The 
highway is an excellent one, much above the Ger- 
man average. In places it is bordered by fruit- 
trees — a common practice in Germany — and we 
pass men who are picking the luscious cherries. So 

89 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

strong is law and order in the Fatherland, we are 
told, that these public fruit-trees are never molested 
and the proceeds are used for road improvement. 
The day is showery, which to some extent obscures 
the scenery, though the changeful moods of light 
and color are not without charm. The great hills 
with their castles and vineyards are alternately 
cloud-swept and flooded with sunlight — or, more 
rarely, hidden by a dashing summer shower. 

Bingen has gained a wide fame from the old 
ballad whose melancholy lilt comes quickly to one's 
mind — though we do not find the simple country 
village we had imagined. It has about ten thou- 
sand people and lies in a little valley on both sides 
of the Nahe, a small river which joins the Rhine 
at this point. It is an ancient place, its history 
running back to Roman times. Slight remains of 
a Roman fortress still exist, though the site is now 
occupied by Klopp Castle, which was restored 
from complete ruin a half century ago. This castle 
is open to visitors and from its tower one may look 
down on the town with its gray roofs and huge 
churches. 

From Bingen to Coblenz, a distance of about 
forty miles, the gorge of the Rhine is continuous 
and we are never out of sight of the vine-covered 
hills and frequent ruins. Nearly all the ruined cas- 

90 




w 
w 

H 

u 



BAVARIA AND THE! RHINEJ 

ties of Germany center here and we see fit matches 
for Caerphilly, Richmond or Kenilworth in Britain. 
In this hurried chronicle I cannot even mention all 
of these picturesque and often imposing ruins, 
though a few may be chosen as typical. 

A short distance from Bingen is Rheinstein, orig- 
inally built about 1270 and recently restored by 
Prince Henry as one of his summer residences, 
though he has visited it, the custodian tells us, but 
once in two years. A wearisome climb is necessary 
to reach the castle, which is some two hundred 
and fifty feet above the road where we leave our 
car. The mediaeval architecture and furnishings 
are carried out as closely as possible in the restora- 
tion, giving a good idea of the life and state of the 
old-time barons. There is also an important collec- 
tion of armor and antiquities relating to German 
history. 

In this same vicinity is Ehrenfels, which has stood 
in ruin nearly three hundred years. Its towers still 
stand, proud and threatening, though the residen- 
tial portions are much shattered. Opposite this ruin, 
on a small island in the river, is the curious "Mouse 
Tower," where, legend asserts, a cruel archbishop 
was once besieged and finally devoured by an army 
of mice and rats, a judgment for causing a number 
of poor people to be burned in order to get rid 

91 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

of them during a famine. But as the bishop lived 
about 9 1 5 and the tower was built some three hun- 
dred years later, his connection with it is certainly 
mythical and let us hope the rest of the story has 
no better foundation. The old name, Mausturm 
(arsenal), no doubt suggested the fiction to some 
early chronicler. 

The castles of Sonneck and Falkenburg, dating 
from the eleventh century, surmount the heights a 
little farther on our way. These were strongholds 
of robber-barons who in the middle ages preyed 
upon the river-borne traffic — their exploits forming 
the burden of many a ballad and tale. These gen- 
try came to their just deserts about 1300 at the 
hands of Prince Rudolph, who consigned them to 
the gallows and destroyed their castles. Sonneck 
is still in ruins, but Falkenburg has been restored 
and is now private property. 

Almost every foot of the Rhine Gorge boasts 
of some supernatural or heroic tale — as myth-makers 
the Germans were not behind their contemporaries. 
We pass the Devil's Ladder, where the fiend once 
aided an ancient knight — no doubt on the score of 
personal friendship — to scale the perpendicular cliff 
to gain the hand of a "ladye fair." A little far- 
ther are the Lorelei Rocks, where the sirens en- 
ticed the sailors to destruction in the rapids just 

92 




EHRENFELS ON THE RHINE 



BAVARIA AND THE RHINE 

below. Quite as unfortunate were the seven vir- 
gins of Schonburg, who for their prudery were 
transformed into seven rocky pinnacles not far from 
the Lorelei — and so on ad infinitum. 

A volume would not catalog the legends and su- 
perstitions of the Rhine Gorge. At least the Cap- 
tain so declares and adds that he knows a strange 
story of the Rhine that an old German once told 
him in Bingen. At our solicitation he repeats it as 
we glide slowly along the river road and I have 
thought it worth recasting for my book. There will 
be no harm done if it is skipped by the reader who 
has no taste for such things. It is a little after the 
style of several German legends of ancient gentry, 
who sold themselves to the Evil One to gain some 
greatly desired point — though I always thought 
these stories reflected on the business sagacity of 
the Devil in making him pay for something he was 
bound to get in the end without cost. The story, 
I find, is long enough to require a chapter of itself 
and it may appropriately follow this. 

There are endless small towns along the road, 
but they are quite free from the untoward condi- 
tions I have described in the more retired villages 
off the track of tourist travel. Boppard, St. Goar 
Oberwesel and Bornhofen are among the number 
and each has its storied ruin. Near the last-named 

93 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

are the twin castles of The Brothers, with their 
legend of love and war which the painstaking Bae- 
deker duly chronicles. Above St. Goar towers the 
vast straggling ruin of Rheinfels, said to be the 
most extensive in Germany, which has stood in de- 
cay since its capture by the French in 1797. It 
crowns a barren and almost inaccessible rock which 
rises nearly four hundred feet above the river. Neat 
Boppard is Marxburg, the only old-time castle which 
has never been in ruin. It has passed through many 
vicissitudes and at present serves as a museum of 
ancient weapons and warlike costumes. 

As we approach Coblenz we come in sight of 
the battlemented towers of Stolzenfels rising above 
the dense forests that cover the great hill on which 
it stands. The castle is three hundred and ten feet 
above the river, but the plain square tower rises 
one hundred and ten feet higher, affording a mag- 
nificent outlook. The present structure is modern, 
having been built in 1842 by the crown prince on 
the site of an old castle destroyed by the French. 
It now belongs to the emperor, who opens it to vis- 
itors when he is not in residence. It is a splendid 
edifice and gives some idea of the former magnifi- 
cence of the ruins we have seen to-day. 

Coblenz, at the junction of the Moselle and 
Rhine, appeals to us as a stopping-place and we 

94 




w 

g 

s 

PC 
w 

H 

< 
U 

o 






BAVARIA AND THE RHINE 

turn in at the Monopol — just why I do not know. 
There are certainly much better hotels in Coblenz 
than this old-fashioned and rather slack place, 
though it has the redeeming feature of very mod- 
erate charges. The Captain is in very ill humor; 
he has quarreled with an employe at the garage 
and as nearly as I can learn, tried to drive the car 
over him. I feared the outraged Teuton might 
drop a wrench in our gear-box as a revenge for the 
rating the Captain gave him — though, fortunately, 
we experience no such misfortune. 

Coblenz has about fifty thousand people and 
while it is a very old city — its name indicating Ro- 
man origin — it has little to detain the tourist. An 
hour's drive about the place will suffice and we 
especially remember the colossal bronze statue of 
Emperor William I., which stands on the point of 
land where the two rivers join — a memorial which 
Baedeker declares "one of the most impressive per- 
sonal monuments in the world." The equestrian 
figure is forty-six feet high and dominates the land- 
scape in all directions, being especially imposing 
when seen from the river. Just opposite Coblenz 
is the fortress of Ehrenbreitstein, about four hun- 
dred feet above the river. A finely engineered road 
leads to the fort, where a large garrison of soldiers 
is stationed. Visitors are admitted provided they 

95 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

can satisfy the officials that they are not foreign 
military men who might spy out the defenses. 

Our route as planned by the Royal Automobile 
Club was to take us from Coblenz to Treves by 
way of the Moselle Valley, but our desire to see 
the cathedral leads us to follow the Rhine road to 
Cologne. Mr. Maroney of the Club afterwards 
told me that we made a mistake, since the scenery 
and storied ruins of Moselle Valley are quite equal 
to the Rhine Gorge itself. Cologne one can see 
any time, but the chance to follow the Moselle by 
motor does not come every day. We are disap- 
pointed in the trip to Cologne, since there is little 
of the picturesqueness and romantic charm that de- 
lighted us on the previous day. The castle of 
Drachenfels, on a mighty hill rising a thousand feet 
above the river, is the most famous ruin, but we 
do not undertake the rather difficult ascent. The 
far-reaching view from the summit was celebrated 
by Byron in "Childe Harold." 

Just opposite is the ruin of Rolandseck, with its 
pathetic legend of unrequited love and constancy. 
This castle, tradition says, was built by Roland, a 
crusader, who returned to find that his affianced 
bride had given him up as dead and entered a 
convent. He thereupon built this retreat whence 
he could look down upon the convent that impris- 

96 



BAVARIA AND THE, RHINE 

oned the fair Hildegund. When after some years 
he heard of her death he never spoke again, but 
pined away until death overtook him also a short 
time afterwards. 

Midway we pass through Bonn, the university 
town, a clean, modern city of sixty thousand peo- 
ple. The university was founded a century ago and 
has some three thousand students. Beethoven was 
born in Bonn in 1 770, in a house which now con- 
tains a museum relating to the great composer. 

Our road keeps to the right of the river, which 
is swollen and dirty yellow from recent rains. We 
pass many villages with miserable streets — the road 
in no wise compares with the one we followed yes- 
terday through the Gorge. Altogether, the fifty 
miles between Coblenz and Cologne has little to 
make the run worth while. 

We find ourselves in the narrow, crooked streets 
of Cologne well before noon and are stopped by — 
it seems to us — a very officious policeman who tells 
us we may proceed if we will be careful. This 
seems ridiculous and the Captain cites it as an ex- 
ample of the itching of every German functionary 
to show his authority, but later we learn that motors 
are not allowed on certain streets of Cologne be- 
tween eleven and two o'clock. Our friend the offi- 
cer was really showing us a favor on account of 

97 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

our ignorance in permitting us to proceed. We 
direct our course towards the cathedral, which over- 
shadows everything else in Cologne, and the Savoy 
Hotel, just opposite, seems the logical place to stop. 
It proves very satisfactory, though it ranks well down 
in Baedeker's list. 

Cologne Cathedral is conceded to be the most 
magnificent church in the world and a lengthy de- 
scription would be little but useless repetition of 
well-known data. We find, however, that to really 
appreciate the vastness and grandeur of the great 
edifice one must ascend the towers and view the 
various details at close range. It is not easy to 
climb five hundred feet of winding stairs, especially 
if one is inclined to be a little short-winded, but 
the effort will be rewarded by a better conception 
of the building and a magnificent view covering a 
wide scope of country. We are unfortunate today 
since a gray mist obscures much of the city beneath 
us and quite shuts out the more distant landscape. 
The great twin towers, which rise more than five 
hundred feet into the sky, were completed only a 
few years ago. In the period between 1842 and 
1880 about five million dollars was expended in 
carrying out the original plans — almost precisely as 
they were drawn by the architects nearly seven hun- 
dred years ago. The corner-stone was laid in 1 248 

98 



BAVARIA AND THE RHINE 

and construction was carried forward at intervals 
during the period of seven centuries. 

Inside, the cathedral is no less impressive than 
from the exterior. The vaulting, which rises over 
two hundred feet from the floor, is carried by fifty- 
six great pillars and the plan is such that one's 
vision may cover almost the whole interior from a 
single viewpoint. It is lighted by softly toned win- 
dows — mostly modern, though a few date from 
the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries and, altogether, 
the effect is hardly matched by any other church in 
Christendom. 

We make no attempt to see the show-places of 
Cologne during our stay — it would require a week 
to do this and we shall have to come again. An 
afternoon about the city gives us some idea of its 
monuments and notable buildings as well as glimpses 
of the narrow and often quaint streets of the old 
town. The next day we are away for Treves and 
Luxemburg before the "verboten" hour for motor 
cars. 

If we missed much fine scenery in the Moselle 
Valley by coming to Cologne, the loss is partly 
atoned for by the country we see to-day and the 
unusually excellent roads. Our route as far as 
Treves runs a little west of south and diverges some 
seventy-five miles from the Rhine. It is through a 

99 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

high, rolling country, often somewhat sterile, but 
we have many glorious views from the upland roads. 
There are long stretches of hills interspersed with 
wooded valleys and fields bright with yellow gorse 
or crimson poppies. There are many grain-fields, 
though not so opulent-looking as those we saw in 
the Rhine Valley, and we pass through tracts of 
fragrant pine forest, which often crowd up to the 
very roadside. There are many long though usually 
easy climbs, and again we may glide downward a 
mile or more with closed throttle and disengaged 
gears. Much of the way the roadside is bordered 
with trees and the landscapes remind us more of 
France than any we have so far seen in Germany. 
We pass but two or three villages in the one hun- 
dred and ten miles between Cologne and Treves; 
there are numerous isolated farmhouses, rather 
cleaner and better than we have seen previously. 
We stop at a country inn in the village of Prun for 
luncheon, which proves excellent — a pleasant sur- 
prise, for the inn is anything but prepossessing in 
appearance. The guests sit at one long table with 
the host at the head and evidently the majority are 
people of the village. Beer and wine are served 
free with the meal and some of the patrons imbibe 
an astonishing quantity. This seems to be the uni- 
versal custom in the smaller inns; in the city hotels 

100 



BAVARIA AND THE RHINE 

wine comes as an extra — no doubt somewhat of a 
deterrent on its free use. 

Treves — German Trier — is said to be the oldest 
town in Germany. The records show that Chris- 
tianity was introduced here as early as 314 and 
the place was important in ecclesiastical circles 
throughout the middle ages. We have a splendid 
view of the town from the hills as we approach; it 
lies in the wide plain of the Moselle and its red 
sandstone walls and numerous towers present a 
very striking appearance. The cathedral, though 
not especially imposing, is one of the oldest of 
German churches — portions of it dating from 528 
and the basilica now used as a Protestant church is 
a restored Roman structure dating from 306. But 
for all its antiquity Treves seems a pleasant, up-to- 
date town with well-paved streets — a point which 
never escapes the notice of the motorist. The sur- 
rounding hills are covered with vineyards and the 
wine trade forms one of the principal enterprises of 
the place. 

A few miles from Treves we enter the Grand 
Duchy of Luxemburg, an independent country, 
though part of the German Zollverein, which no 
doubt makes our touring license and number-plates 
pass current here. It is a tiny state of no more 
than a thousand square miles, though it has a quar- 

101 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

ter million people. Luxemburg, where we decide 
to stop for the night, is the capital. The Grand 
Hotel Brasseur looks good, though the service 
proves rather slack and the "cuisine" anything but 
first-class. Luxemburg is a delight — partly due lo 
its peculiar and picturesque situation, but still more 
to the quaint buildings and crooked, narrow streets 
of the older parts and the shattered walls and watch- 
towers that still encircle it. The more modern por- 
tion of the town — which has but twenty thousand 
inhabitants- — is perched on a rocky tableland, three 
sides of which drop almost precipitously for about 
two hundred feet to small rivers beneath. The 
hotels and principal business houses are on the 
plateau, but the older parts of the town are wedged 
in the narrow valleys. These are spanned by sev- 
eral high bridges, from one of which we have a 
delightful viewpoint. It is twilight and the gray 
houses are merging into the shadows, but the stern 
towers and broken walls on the heights fling their 
rugged forms more clearly than ever against the 
wide band of the sunset horizon. These are the 
remnants of the fortifications which were condemned 
to destruction by the Treaty of London in 1876, 
which guaranteed the neutrality of the Grand 
Duchy. Only the obsolete portions of the defenses 

were permitted to stand and these add wonderfully 

102 







a: 

z 

w 
a 

o 

o 

W 
X 
D 



BAVARIA AND THEJ RHINE 

to the romantic beauty of the town. Indeed, the 
wide panoramas of valley and mountain, of bare, 
beetling rock and trim park and garden, groups of 
old trees, huge arched viaducts and the ancient 
fortifications, form one of the most striking scenes 
we have witnessed on the Continent. It evidently 
so impressed the poet Goethe, about one hundred 
years ago, for a graphic description of Luxemburg 
may be found in his writings. So charming is the 
scene that we linger until darkness quite obliterates 
it and return to our inn feeling that Luxemburg has 
more of real attractiveness than many of the tourist- 
thronged cities. 



103 



VI 

THE CAPTAIN'S STORY 

Friedrich Reinmuth had always been an un- 
settled and discontented youth; if his days were 
sad he complained because they were so and if 
they were prosperous he still found fault. It was 
not strange that, being of such a nature, he should 
already have tried many vocations, although yet a 
young man. At the time of my story he had be- 
come a soldier, and while he often fretted and 
chafed under the rigor of military discipline, he did 
not find it easy to shift from its shackles as had 
been his wont in other occupations. 

By chance he formed a friendship with an old 
and grizzled comrade, who, although he had 
served almost two score years in the army, was 
still hale and strong. The old man had been in 
the midst of numberless desperate engagements but 
had always come out of the fray unscathed. Queer 
stories were whispered about him among his soldier 
companions, but only whispered, for it was be- 
lieved, and with reason, that he would take sum- 
mary vengeance on anyone who crossed his path. 

104 



THE CAPTAIN'S STORY 

He had murdered his own brother in a fit of fury, 
and to him was also imputed the assassination of 
the Baron of Reynold, who rebuked the fiery- 
tempered man on some trifling point; but he had 
never been brought to justice for any of his crimes. 
There was a vague rumor that Gottfried Winstedt 
had sold himself to the devil in return for the 
power to resist all mortal weapons and to escape 
all human justice — this it was that made him in- 
vulnerable in battle and shielded him from the 
wrath of the law. 

But Friedrich in his association with this man 
for the space of two months had noted little extra- 
ordinary about him. He never guessed why the 
veteran broke an habitual reserve to become his com- 
panion until one night when they were conversing 
on the eve of battle. As they sat moodily together 
by a waning camp-fire the older man, who had 
been even more morose than usual during the day, 
broke the silence. In a melancholy voice he said: 

"I have somewhat to tell you now, for before 
the set of tomorrow's sun I will be — God in 
Heaven, where will I be? — but let it pass; I dare 
not think of it. My life has been one of un- 
paralleled wickedness; I have committed crimes the 
very recital of which would appall the most hard- 
ened criminal in the Kingdom, but I would not 

105 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

recite them to you if I could, for what would avail 
the monotonous story of vice and bloodshed for 
which there is no repentance? You have heard the 
rumors that these accursed fools have whispered of 
me — I will not say whether they be true or no. 
But long foreseeing — yes, foreknowing my fate — 
I have sought for someone in whom I might con- 
fide. I was drawn toward you — I hardly know 
why — yet I dare not wholly trust in you. Upon 
one condition, nevertheless, I will commit to you 
something of vast and curious importance.' * 

Friedrich in his amazement was silent and the 
veteran brought forth from the folds of his faded 
cloak a small sandalwood box, which he held 
toward the young man. 

"I would have you swear," he said, "by all you 
hold sacred that you will never open this casket 
except on one condition; it is that you should so 
desire some earthly thing — wealth, fame, love — 
that you are willing to barter your eternal welfare 
to secure it." 

Something in the old man's manner as well as 
his words aroused in Friedrich a feeling akin to 
fear. He took the required oath, mentally resolving 
that he would throw the mysterious casket in the 
river on the first opportunity. 

"Now leave me instantly; I shall never see you 
106 



THE CAPTAIN'S STORY 

again in this world and even I am not so fiendish as 
to wish to see you in my next — but hark ye, if you 
ever break the seal out of idle curiosity I will re- 
turn from the grave to avenge myself on you." 

Startled by the old man's vehemence, Friedrich 
hastened to his quarters and strove to sleep. But 
the strange event of the evening and thoughts of the 
morrow's conflict, with its danger and perhaps 
death, drove slumber from his eyes. He tossed 
about his barrack until the long roll summoned his 
regiment to the field of battle. The fight raged 
fiercely and long, and toward evening Friedrich fell, 
seriously wounded. 

It was many weeks before he was able to be on 
his feet again and finding himself totally unfitted by 
his wound for the profession of arms — and, in fact, 
for any active occupation — he sadly returned to his 
native town on the Rhine. Here it chanced there 
was an old portrait painter of some little renown 
who took a liking to the unfortunate young soldier 
and proposed that he study the art; and Friedrich 
applied himself with such diligence in his new vo- 
cation that before long he far excelled his master. 
Things went prosperously with him. His fame 
spread beyond the borders of his native town and 
came to the ears of many of the noble families of 
the vicinity. He had the good fortune to be pat- 

107 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

ronized by some of these and he transferred the 
beauty of many a haughty dame and fair damsel 
to his canvas with unvarying success. Indeed, it is 
said that more than one of his fair clients looked 
languishingly at the young artist, whose skill and 
fame made much amends for humble birth. 

But Friedrich boasted that he gazed upon the 
fairest of them unmoved. Ambitious and free- 
hearted, he thought himself impervious to the wiles 
of love — a frame of mind he declared indispensible 
tc his art. His success brought him gold as well 
as fame and but one achievement was needed to 
complete his triumphs — the patronage of the Her- 
wehes, the noblest and wealthiest of all the great 
families within leagues of the town. True, the 
baron and his son were away at present, engaged in 
the war that still distracted the land, but the lady 
and her daughter were at home in the magnificent 
castle which surmounted an eminence far above 
the Rhine, in full view against the sky from the 
window of the artist's studio. The fact that the 
Herwehes withheld their countenance from him was 
a sore obstacle in the way of Friedrich's ambitions; 
their influence extended to every class, and many 
lesser lights, professedly imitators of the noble fam- 
ily, followed their example even in trivial matters. 

Great was the young artist's satisfaction when 
108 



THE CAPTAIN'S STORY 

one afternoon two ladies descended from a coach 
(bearing the Herwehe coat-of-arms) which paused 
in the street before his studio. Both were veiled, 
but Friedrich had no doubt that his visitors were 
the baroness and her daughter, whose patronage he 
so earnestly desired. When both were seated the 
elder woman, throwing aside her veil, revealed a 
face that had lost little of its youthful charm, and 
with a tone of haughty condescension said: 

"I have seen some of your portraits, Master 
Reinmuth, and was pleased with them. I wish 
you, regardless of time and cost, to paint my daugh- 
ter. 

By this time Friedrich had to some extent over- 
come his trepidation and with a profound courtesy 
replied, 

"I shall be happy to serve you, My Lady, if 
you will be good enough to indicate the time and 
place for the sittings." 

"Elsa, dearest, what are your wishes?" asked 
the mother, and in a voice whose tremulous sweet- 
ness thrilled the painter, the young woman replied: 

"Let it be at the castle, my dear mother, to- 
morrow at this time. I would rather not come to 
the studio, for I dread the ride over the rough 
mountain road." 

109 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

"I will be at your service, My Lady/' answered 
Friedrich, and his visitors departed without delay. 

Friedrich marveled that his thoughts for the re- 
mainder of the day — and much of the night — 
should revert to the demure little figure whose voice 
had so moved him. Fame bespoke her the fairest 
of the fair, but it never entered his imaginings that 
he, a humble portrait painter, could think of the 
daughter of such an illustrious line but as one of a 
different order of beings from himself. He had 
never thought seriously of love; his mistress, he 
averred, had been fame. True, he had in idle 
moments dreamed of a being that he might madly 
adore — and, alas for him, his fancy had become 
embodied in human form. But why had this 
maiden so affected him? She had not lifted her 
veil and had spoken but once, and if her bearing 
were dignified and her form graceful, he had seen 
many others no less charming in these respects nor 
thought of them a second time. If he had analyzed 
his feelings he would probably have said that the 
unusual impression was due to the recognition of his 
talent by the Herwehes. 

The appointed hour on the morrow found him 
following the footpath which led to the castle gate 
— a much shorter though steeper way than the 
coach road. Intent as he was on his mission, he 

110 



THE CAPTAIN'S STORY 

could not but pause occasionally to view the won- 
derful scene that spread out beneath him. The 
cliff on which the many-towered old castle stood 
almost overhung the blue waters of the Rhine, 
which here run between rocks of stupendous height. 
A little farther down the valley, but in full view 
from his splendid vantage-point, were vineyard- 
terraced hills interspersed with wooded ravines and 
luxuriant meadows. The magic touch of early 
autumn was over it all — a scene of enchanting 
beauty. On the opposite cliff was an ancient ruin 
(now entirely vanished) and Friedrich recalled 
more than one horrible tale about this abandoned 
place that had blanched his youthful cheeks. At 
his feet lay the gray roofs and church spires of his 
native town and perhaps a shadow of a thought 
of the renown he would one day bring to it flitted 
through his mind — for on such an errand and such 
a day what could limit his ambitious musings? 

He soon found himself at the castle gate and 
was admitted by the keeper, who knew of his 
coming. He was ushered into a magnificent apart- 
ment and told to await the Lady Elsa's arrival — 
and the servant added that the baroness was absent, 
having gone that morning to Coblenz to join her 
husband. 

Friedrich, in the few moments he waited, en- 
111 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

deavored to compose himself, though feelings of 
anxiety and curiosity strove with his efforts at in- 
difference; but when the oaken door swung softly 
open and his fair client stood before him, he started 
as though he had seen an apparition. Indeed, it 
flashed on him at once that all the perfection he 
had imagined, all the beauty of which he had 
dreamed, stood before him in the warm tints of 
life, though to his heated fancy she seemed more 
than a being of flesh and blood. In truth, the 
kindly eyes, the expressive and delicately moulded 
face, the flood of dark hair that fell over shapely 
shoulders, the slender yet gracefully rounded form, 
and, more than all, that certain nameless and in- 
describable something that makes a woman beauti- 
ful — did not all these proclaim her almost more 
than mortal to the over-wrought imagination of the 
young visionary? 

"Are you ill?" were her first words when her 
quick eye caught the ghastly pallor of the artist's 
face and the bewildered look that possessed it. 

At the sound of her voice he strove desperately 
to regain his composure. "No, not ill," he said. 
"I still suffer from a wound I received in the army 
and the climb up the mountainside somewhat over- 
taxed my strength." 

112 



THE CAPTAIN'S STORY 

"I am sorry," she replied. "Had I known, I 
would gladly have come to the studio." 

The look of sympathetic interest with which she 
accompanied her words was a poor sedative to the 
already overmastering passions of the artist, but 
by a supreme effort he recovered himself to say: 

"No, no; it is better that I do not pass so much 
of my time there. I have applied myself too closely 
of late. Are you ready, lady, for the sitting?" 

"Yes," said she. "I have been preparing for 
you. Follow me." She led the way through sev- 
eral magnificent apartments to one even more splen- 
did than the rest. "In this room," she continued, 
"I would have the portrait painted, and as a set- 
ting can you not paint a portion of the room itself?" 

Friedrich assented in an absent manner and tak- 
ing up his palette was about to give his fair sub- 
ject directions to seat herself to the best advantage 
when he saw she had already done so, with a pose 
and expression that might have delighted even a 
dispassionate artist's eye — if, indeed, any eye could 
gaze dispassionately on the Lady Elsa Herwehe. 
She had arranged the drapery of her dull-red silken 
robe so as to display to the best advantage — and 
yet not ostentatiously — the outlines of her graceful 
figure, and her dark hair fell in a shadowy mass 
over her shoulders. Her face bore a listless and 

113 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

far-away expression — was it natural, or only as- 
sumed for artistic effect? Friedrich knew not, but 
it made her seem superhuman. The artist took up 
his brush but his brain reeled and his hand trembled. 

"You are surely ill," exclaimed Lady Elsa and 
would have called a servant, but a gesture from 
Friedrich detained her. 

"No, lady, I am not ill" — and losing all control 
of himself he went madly on — "but I cannot paint 
the features of an angel. O, Lady Elsa, if it were 
the last words I should utter I must declare that I 
love you. The moment I saw you a tenfold fury 
seized my soul. I never loved before and I cannot 
stem the torrent now. O, lady, the difference be- 
tween our stations in life is wide — but, after all, it 
may soon be otherwise; I have talent and the world 
will give me fame. This love in a day has become 
my life and what is mere breath without life? If 
you scorn me my life is gone" — 

The Lady Elsa, who was at first overcome by 
astonishment, recovered herself to interrupt him. 
"Peace, you foolish babbler," cried she. "You 
came to paint my likeness, not to make love to 
me. If you cannot do your task, cease your use- 
less vaporings and depart. Think you the daughter 
of an historic line that stretches back to Hengist could 
throw herself away on a poor portrait painter, the 

114 



THE CAPTAIN'S STORY 

son of an ignorant peasant? Take you to your 
business or leave me." 

To Friedrich every word was a dagger-thrust. 
He seemed about to reply when — as awakening 
from a dreadful dream — he rushed from the apart- 
ment and fled in wild haste down the stony path 
to the town. Locking himself in his studio he 
threw himself on the couch in an ecstacy of despair 
and passed the greater part of the night in sleepless 
agony. From sheer exhaustion he fell into a 
troubled slumber towards morning — if such a hide- 
ous semi-conscious state may be called slumber. 
In his dream he saw a host of demons and in their 
midst a veiled figure at the sight of which his heart 
leaped, for it seemed the Lady Elsa. She ap- 
proached and offered him her hand, veiled beneath 
the folds of her robe; when he had clasped it he 
stood face to face, not with the lady of his love, 
but with the sin-hardened and sardonic features of 
Gottfried Winstedt, the old soldier-comrade whose 
dreadful fate he had forgotten! With a wild start 
he awoke and his thoughts immediately flashed to 
the strange casket the old man had given him. The 
words of that anomaly of a man came to him with 
an awful significance: "When thou shalt so desire 
some earthly thing that thou wouldst barter thine 

115 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

eternal welfare to secure it, thou mayest open this 
casket." 

Fearing that his curiosity might some time over- 
come him and dreading the threat of old Gottfried, 
he had buried the casket in a lonely spot and quite 
forgotten it. His dream recalled it to his memory 
at a time when no price would be too great to pay 
for the love of Elsa Herwehe. He sprang from 
his couch and hastened to the secluded corner of 
his father's garden, where he had buried the mys- 
terious casket in a wrapping of coarse sack-cloth. 
Returning to his room and carefully barring the 
doors he opened the box with little difficulty. It 
contained a roll of manuscript and a single sheet of 
yellow parchment. Friedrich unrolled this and a 
small scrap of paper fell at his feet. It bore these 
words in faded red letters: 

"Thou who art willing to bear the consequence, 
read; the incantation on the parchment, if repeated 
in a solitary spot at midnight, will bring the pres- 
ence of the Prince of Evil, though thou canst not 
know the meaning of the words. He will give 
thee thy desire at the price of thy soul. But beware 
— thou hast yet the power to recede." 

Friedrich read these words with a strange fasci- 
nation, nor did the solemn warning in the slightest 
degree alter his purpose to seek a conference with 

116 



THE CAPTAIN'S STORY 

the enemy. The parchment bore but a single 
verse in a strange language, and the artist thrust 
it in his bosom with a feeling of triumph. A glance 
at the manuscript showed it the story of Gottfried 
Winstedt's life, which he contemptuously flung into 
the grate, saying: 

"What care I for the doings of the brutal old 
fool? To-night I will seek the old ruin across the 
Rhine which stands opposite the Herwehe estate — 
my future estate, perchance; no one will interrupt 
my business there!" And he laughed a mirthless 
laugh that startled even himself, for a hoarse echo 
seemed to follow it; was it the Fiend or the ghost 
of Gottfried Winstedt who mocked him? 

Meanwhile, the Lady Elsa sat in her chamber 
overcome with surprise at the actions of the artist; 
annoyed and angry, yet half pitying him, for he 
was a gallant young fellow, sure to gain the world's 
applause — and what woman ever found it in her 
heart to wholly condemn the man who truly loves 
her? She ordered a servant to restore to Friedrich 
his painting utensils which he had left in his preci- 
pitate flight, but the man returned saying he could 
not gain admittance to the studio and had left his 
charge at the door. 

The following day — the same on which Fried- 
rich had recovered the fatal casket- — the baroness 

117 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

returned from Coblenz, accompanied by her eldest 
son. She inquired as to the progress of the por- 
trait and Elsa in a half careless, yet melancholy 
tone told her all and even expressed pity for the 
poor artist. But the haughty noblewoman was 
highly incensed at the presumption of the young 
painter and Heinrich, the son, who was present, 
flew into an uncontrollable fury and swore by all 
he considered holy that the knave's impudence 
should be punished. Snatching his sword he left 
the castle in a great rage. Elsa called to him to 
desist, but her words were unheeded. She then 
appealed to her mother: "Will you permit the 
rash boy to leave in such a passion? You know 
his fiery temper and he may do that which will 
cause him grave trouble." 

"I will not hinder him," replied the baroness. 
"Let him chastise the churl for his presumption; if 
we do not make an example of someone, the vil* 
lage tanner will next seek your hand." 

"And if he did, would I need hear his suiO 
Why give farther pain to the poor artist, who is 
already in deepest distress?" 

"I shall half believe you heard his suit with 
favor if you urge more in his defense," said the 
mother petulantly, and Elsa, who knew her moods, 
sighed and was silent. 

118 



THE CAPTAIN'S STORY 

Meanwhile the wrathful young nobleman pressed 
on towards the town. The sun had already far 
declined and flung his low rays on the broad river 
till it seemed a stream of molten gold. The red 
and yellow hues of early autumn took on a brighter 
glow and the town, the distant vineyards and the 
wooded vales lay in hazy quietude. But little of 
this beauty engaged the mind of Heinrich Herwehe 
as he bounded down the mountain path. As he 
brooded over the insult to his sister his anger, in- 
stead of cooling, increased until the fury of his pas- 
sion was beyond his control. In this mood he 
came to the outskirts of the town where, to his in- 
tense satisfaction, he saw the artist approaching. 
Friedrich was hastening toward the river and would 
have taken no notice of the young baron, whom he 
quite failed to recognize. But he was startled by 
a fierce oath from Heinrich, who exclaimed: 

"Ha, you paltry paint-dauber, draw and de- 
fend yourself or I will stab you where you stand/* 

"Fool," replied the astonished artist, "who are 
you that thus accosts me on the highroad ?" 

"That matters not; defend yourself or die/' And 
with these words the impetuous young nobleman 
rushed upon the object of his wrath. But Fried- 
rich was no insignificant antagonist; he had served 
in the army and had acquired the tricks of sword- 

119 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

play, and for a contest that required a cool indif- 
ference to life or death, his mood was far the better 
of the two. Little caring what his fate might be 
and without further words he coolly met the on- 
slaught of his unknown enemy. Such was Hein- 
rich's fury that he quite disregarded caution in his 
desire to overcome an opponent whom he despised. 
Such a contest could not be of long duration. In a 
violent lunge which the artist avoided, the noble- 
man's foot slipped on the sward and he was trans- 
fixed by his adversary's rapier. With scarce a 
groan he expired and Friedrich, hardly looking at 
his prostrate foe, exclaimed: 

"You fool, you have brought your fate upon 
yourself!" and, as he sheathed his sword, added, 
"Who you were and why you did so set upon 
me I cannot conceive, but it matters not; I doubt 
not that the confessor to whom I go will readily 
absolve me from this deed." 

He pursued his lonely way to the river's edge, 
where he stepped into a small boat and as he 
moved from the shore he muttered, "O, Elsa, 
Elsa, he who would give an earthly life for love 
might be counted a madman; what then of one 
who seeks to barter eternity for thee?" He soon 
reached the opposite bank of the river and began 
the steep ascent to the ruined castle. He beheld, 

120 



THE CAPTAIN'S STORY 

in the gathering twilight, the same romantic scenes 
that had so thrilled him but two days ago and 
could scarce believe himself the same man. Dark- 
ness was rapidly gathering and by the time he 
reached the ruin the last glow of sunset had faded 
from the sky. He crossed the tottering bridge over 
the empty moat and entered the desolate courtyard. 
Here, in the uncertain gloom of the lonely ruin, he 
must wait the coming of midnight and wear away 
as best he could the ghostly monotony of the pass- 
ing hours. But his purpose was fixed; his despera- 
tion had been only increased by the events of the 
day, and seating himself on a fragment of the wall 
he determined to endure whatever came. He heard 
the great cathedral bell of the distant town toll hour 
after hour and when midnight drew near he un- 
falteringly entered the vast deserted hall of state. 
Here he lighted his small lamp, whose feeble beams 
struggled fitfully with the shadows of the huge 
apartment. He drew forth the parchment — he had 
not mustered courage to look at it since morning — 
and as the last stroke of the great bell died in the 
gloom, he muttered the strange language of the in- 
cantation. Suddenly there came a rushing sound 
as of a gust of wind, which extinguished his lamp, 
and, forgetting that he must repeat the fatal words, 
he let the parchment fall. The wind whiffed it 

121 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

he knew not whither. No visible shape came before 
him, but in a moment he felt the awful pres- 
ence and a voice sepulchral and stony came out 
of the darkness: 

"Mortal, who art thou that dost thus summon 
me? What wilt thou?" 

Sick with terror and yet determined even to 
death, Friedrich answered: "And knowest thou 
not? Men speak thee omniscient. But I can tell 
thee of my hopeless love — " 

"Nay, I know all," continued the voice. "Re- 
light thy lamp and I will tell thee how thou mayst 
gain thy desire." 

Trembling, Friedrich obeyed and looked wildly 
about, expecting the visible form of the Fiend, but 
he saw nothing. Yet he felt the horrid pres- 
ence and knew that his awful visitant was near 
at hand. 

From out of the darkness a heavy iron-clasped 
book fell at his feet and the voice continued: "Open 
a vein and sign thy name in the book with blood." 

Friedrich with changeless determination obeyed 
and the book disappeared. 

"Take this gold," said his dreadful monitor, and 
a heavy bag fell at the artist's feet with a crash, 
"and I will give thee graces to win the fair one's 
heart. Repeat the incantation that I may depart." 

122 



THE CAPTAIN'S STORY 

For the first time since it had disappeared Fried- 
rich thought of the fatal parchment and in an agony 
of horror remembered that it was gone. He would 
have rushed from the castle but the power of the 
presence held him immovable. 

"Fiend," he shrieked, "where is the parchment? 
Thou knowest; tell me, in God's name!" 

"Fool, tenfold fool, dost thou call on my arch- 
enemy to adjure me? The parchment is naught to 
me; it was thy business to guard it. I can wait 
till day-break when I must depart, and with me 
thou must go." 

"Fiend," he shrieked, "where is the parchment? 
I adjure thee" — but the voice was silent and the 
mighty power still chained its victim to the spot. 
It were useless to follow the blasphemous ravings of 
the unfortunate youth, who cursed God and human- 
kind as well as the enemy until the first ray of the 
rising sun darted through the crumbling arches, 
when the inexorable power smote him dead and 
doubtless carried his spirit to the region of the 
damned. 

Herwehe Castle — and, indeed, the whole town 
and countryside — was in a wild uproar on the fol- 
lowing morning. The young nobleman had been 
found murdered, sword in hand, and all knew 
from the wailing mother the mission on which he 

123 



WE INVADE THE FATHERLAND 

had set out the evening before. Friedrich was 
missing and was instantly accused as the murderer. 
Companies of furious retainers and villagers scoured 
the countryside until at last a party searching the 
old ruin found the object of their wrath. He lay 
dead upon the floor of the ancient hall of state 
with only an extinguished lamp near him and, to 
their amazement, a bag of gold. 

Various theories were advanced concerning him 
and his death. The commonly accepted one was 
that he had stolen the gold and murdered the young 
nobleman and, being struck with remorse, had ended 
his life with some subtle poison. But none ever 
knew the real fate of the poor artist save his old 
father, who guessed it from reading the manuscript 
of Gottfried Winstedt, which he found uncon- 
sumed in the grate of his son's studio. 



124 



VII 

A FLIGHT THROUGH THE NORTH 

Twenty miles from Luxemburg we come to the 
French border, where we must pay another fee to 
the German official who occupies a little house by 
the roadside and who takes over the number-plates 
which we received on entering Germany. The 
French officer, a little farther on, questions us per- 
functorily as to whether we have anything dutiable; 
we have purchased only a few souvenirs and trink- 
ets in Germany and feel free to declare that we 
have nothing. We suppose our troubles with the 
customs ended and the Captain, who purchased 
several bottles of perfume in Cologne — the French 
are strongly prejudiced against German perfumes — 
rests easier. But in Longwy, a small town four or 
five miles from the border, another official profes- 
sing to represent the customs stops us and is much 
more insistent than the former, though after open- 
ing a hand-bag or two and prying about the car 
awhile, he reluctantly permits us to proceed. And 
this is not all, for at the next town a blue-uniformed 
dignitary holds us up and declares he must go 

125 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

through our baggage in search of contraband articles. 
A lengthy war of words ensues between this new 
interloper and the Captain, who finally turns to us 
and says: 

"This fellow insists that if we do not give him a 
list of our purchases in Germany and pay duty, 
cur baggage will be examined in the next town 
and if we are smuggling anything we'll have to go 
to jail." 

This is cheerful news, but our temper is roused 
by this time and we flatly refuse to give any infor- 
mation to our questioner or to permit him to ex- 
amine our baggage. He leaves us — with no very 
complimentary remarks, the Captain says — and we 
make as quick a "get-away" as possible. We keep 
a sharp look-out in the next two or three villages, 
but are not again troubled by the minions of the 
law. We begin to suspect that the officers were 
simply local policemen who were trying to frighten 
us into paying a fee, and we are still of this opinion. 

After crossing the border we follow a splendid 
road leading through a rather uninteresting country 
and a succession of miserable villages, a description 
of which would be no very pleasant reading. Suf- 
fice it to say that their characteristics are the same 
as those of similar villages we have already written 

126 



A FLIGHT THROUGH THE NORTH 

about — if anything, they are dirtier and uglier. 
They are all small and unimportant, Montmedy, the 
largest, having only two thousand inhabitants and 
a considerable garrison. This section was the scene 
of some of the great events of the war of 1870-71. 
About noon we come to Sedan, which gave its 
name to the memorable battle if, indeed, such a 
one-sided conflict can be called a battle. The 
Germans simply corralled the French army here 
with about as much ease as if it were a flock of 
sheep — but the Captain insists they would have no 
such " walk-away" to-day. The ancient inn — 
bearing the pretentious name of Hotel de la Croix 
d'Or — where we have lunch, endeavors to charge 
one franc "exchange" on an English sovereign, 
thereby arousing the Captain's ire, not so much on 
account of the extortion as for the presumption in 
questioning an English gold-piece, which ought to 
pass current wherever the sun shines. He indig- 
nantly seeks a bank and tells down French coin to 
the landlord, along with his compliments delivered 
in no very conciliatory tone. Sedan is an old and 
untidy town of about twenty thousand people and 
aside from its connection with the famous battle 
has little to interest the tourist. 

Our route along the river Meuse between Sedan 
and Mezieres takes us over much of the battlefield, 

127 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

but there is little to-day to remind one of the 
struggle. Out of Sedan the road is better — a wide, 
straight, level highway which enables us to make 
the longest day's run of our entire tour. The 
country improves in appearance and becomes more 
like the France of Orleans and Touraine. The day, 
which began dull and hazy, has cleared away beau- 
tifully and the flood of June sunshine shows Sum- 
mer France at its best. From the upland roads 
there are far-reaching views, through ranks of 
stately trees, of green landscapes, flaming here and 
there with poppy-fields or glowing with patches of 
yellow gorse. The country is trim and apparently 
well-tilled; the villages are better and cleaner and 
the road a very dream for the motorist. At Guise 
there is a ruined castle of vast extent, its ancient 
walls still encircling much of the town. Guise was 
burned by the English under John of Hanehault in 
1339, but the redoubtable John could not force 
the surrender of the castle, which was defended by 
his own daughter, the wife of a French nobleman 
then absent. 

So swift is our progress over the fine straight road 
that we find ourselves in the streets of St. Quentin 
while the sun is yet high, but a glance at our odom- 
eter tells us we have gone far enough and we turn 
in at the Hotel de France et d'Angleterre. It is 

128 



A FLIGHT THROUGH THE NORTH 

evidently an old house and every nook and corner 
is cumbered with tawdry bric-a-brac — china, statu- 
ettes, candlesticks and a thousand and one articles 
of the sort. Our apartments are spacious, with 
much antique furniture, and the high-posted beds 
prove more comfortable than they look. Mirrors 
with massive gilt frames stare at us from the walls 
and heavy chandeliers hang from the ceilings. The 
price for all this magnificence is quite low, for St. 
Quentin is in no sense a tourist town and hotel 
rates have not yet been adjusted for the infrequent 
motorist. The hotel is well-patronized, apparently 
by commercial men, who make it a rather lively 
place. The meals are good and the servants prompt 
and attentive — superior in this respect to many of 
the pretentious tourist-thronged hotels. 

There is nothing to keep us in St. Quentin; in 
the morning we start out to drive about the town, 
but the narrow, crooked streets and miserable cob- 
ble pavements soon change our determination and 
we inquire the route to Amiens. It chances that 
the direct road, running straight as an arrow be- 
tween the towns, is undergoing repairs and we are 
advised to take another route. I cannot now trace 
it on the map, but I am sure the Captain for once 
became badly mixed and we have a good many 
miles of the roughest going we found in Europe. 

129 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

We strike a stretch of the cobblestone "pave" 
which is still encountered in France and ten miles 
per hour is about the limit. These roads are prob- 
ably more than a hundred years old. They are 
practically abandoned except by occasional peas- 
ants' carts and their roughness is simply indescrib- 
able. As it chances, we have a dozen miles of this 
"pave" before we reach the main road and we are 
too occupied with our troubles to look at the country 
or note the name of the one wretched village we 
pass. 

Once in the broad main highway, however, we 
are delighted with the beauty and color of the 
country. We pass through wide, unfenced fields 
of grain, interspersed with the ever-present poppies 
and blue cornflowers and from the hills we catch 
glimpses of the distant river. Long before we come 
to Amiens — shall I say before we come in sight of 
the city? — we descry the vast bulk of the cathedral 
rising from the plain below. The surrounding city 
seems but a soft gray blur, but the noble structure 
towers above and dominates everything else until 
we quite forget that there is anything in Amiens 
but the cathedral. We soon enter an ancient-look- 
ing city of some ninety thousand people and make 

the mistake of choosing the Great Hotel d'la Uni- 

130 



A PLIGHT THROUGH THE NORTH 

vers, for, despite its pretentious name, it is dingy 
and ill-arranged and the service is decidedly slack. 

Amiens Cathedral is one of the greatest churches 
of Europe, though the low and inharmonious towers 
of the facade detract much from the dignity of the 
exterior. Nor does the high and extremely slender 
central spire accord well with the general style of 
the building. The body of the cathedral, divested 
of spire and towers, would make a fit match for 
Cologne, which it resembles in plan and dimensions, 
but it has a more ancient appearance, having under- 
gone little change in six centuries. The delicate 
sculptures and carvings are stained and weather- 
worn, but they present that delightful color toning 
that age alone can give. Inside, a recent writer de- 
clares, it is "one vast blaze of light and color com- 
ing not only from the clerestory but from the glazed 
triforium also, the magnificent blue glass typifying 
the splendor of the heavens*' — a pleasing effect, on 
the whole, though the flood of softly toned light 
brings out to disadvantage the gaudy ornaments and 
trinkets of the private chapels so common in French 
cathedrals. Ruskin advises the visitor, no matter 
how short his time may be, to devote it, not to the 
contemplation of arches and piers and colored glass, 
but to the woodwork of the chancel, which he con- 
siders the most beautiful carpenter work of the so- 

131 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

called Flamboyant period. There is also a multi- 
tude of sculptured images, some meritorious wall 
frescoes, and several stained-glass windows dating 
from the thirteenth century. At the rear is a statue 
of Peter the Hermit, for the monk who started the, 
great crusading movement of the middle ages was 
a native of Amiens. 

All of these things we note in a cursory manner; 
we recognize that the student might spend hours, 
if not days, in studying the details of such a mighty 
structure. But such is not our mood; the truth is, 
we are a little tired of cathedrals and are not sorry 
that Amiens is the last for the present. What an 
array we have seen in our month's tour: Rouen, 
Orleans, Tours, Dijon, Nevers, Ulm, Mayence, 
Cologne, Amiens — not to mention a host of lesser 
lights. We have had a surfeit and we shall doubt- 
less be able to better appreciate what we have seen 
after a period of reflection, which will also bring 
a better understanding to our aid should we resume 
our pilgrimage to these ecclesiastical monuments. 

There is little besides the cathedral to detain 
the tourist in Amiens, unless, indeed, he should be 
fortunate enough to be able to go as leisurely as he 
likes. Then he would see the Musee, which has 
a really good collection of pictures and relics, or 
the library, which is one of the best in French pro- 

132 



A PLIGHT THROUGH THE NORTH 

vincial towns. There are some quaint old houses 
along the river and many odd corners to delight 
the artistic eye. John Ruskin found enough to 
keep him in Amiens many days and to fill several 
pages in his writings. But it would take more than 
all this to delay us now when we are so near the 
English shores. If we leave Amiens early enough 
we may catch the noon Channel boat — we ought 
to cover the ninety miles to Boulogne in three or 
four hours. But we find the main road to Abbe- 
ville closed and lose our way twice, which, with 
two deflated tires, puts our plan out of question. 
Much of the road is distressingly rough and there 
are many "canivaux" to slacken our speed. We 
soon decide to take matters easily and cross the 
Channel on the late afternoon boat. 

The picturesque old town of Abbeville was one 
of John Ruskin's favorite sketching grounds. We 
pass the market-place, which is surrounded by an- 
cient houses with high-pitched gables colored in 
varied tints of gray, dull-blue and pale-green. The 
church is cited by Ruskin as one of the best exam- 
ples of Flamboyant style in France, though the dif- 
ferent parts are rather inharmonious and of un- 
equal merit. Abbeville was held by the English 
for two hundred years and the last possession, ex- 
cept Calais, to be surrendered to France. Here 

133 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

in 1514 Louis of Brittany married Mary Tudor — 
the beautiful sister of Henry VIII. — only to leave 
her a widow a few months later. She returned 
to England and afterwards became the wife of the 
Duke of Suffolk. 

It is market-day in Montreuil and the streets are 
crowded with country people. We stop in the 
thronged market-place, where a lively scene is being 
enacted. All kinds of garden produce and fruits 
are offered for sale and we are importuned to pur- 
chase by the enterprising market-women. We find 
the fruit excellent and inexpensive, and this, with 
a number of other object lessons in the course of 
our travels, impressed us with the advantages of the 
European market plan, which brings fresh produce 
direct to the consumer at a moderate price. 

We have most of the afternoon about Boulogne. 
In starting on our tour a month before we hardly 
glanced at our landing port, so anxious were we 
for the country roads; but as we drive about the 
city now, we are delighted with its antiquity and 
quaintness. It is still enclosed by walls — much re- 
stored, it is true, and so, perhaps, are the unique 
gateways. The streets are mostly paved with cob- 
bles, which make unpleasant driving and after a 
short round we deliver the car at the quay. At 
the Hotel Angleterre we order some strawberries 

134 



A PLIGHT THROUGH THE NORTH 

as an "extra" with our luncheon — these being just 
in season — and we are cheerfully presented with a 
bill for six francs for a quantity that can be bought 
in the market-place for ten cents — this in addition 
to an unusually high charge for the meal. Evidently 
Boulogne Bonifaces are not in business solely for 
their health. The town is a frequented summer 
resort, with a good beach and numerous hotels and 
lodging-places. It is said to be the most Anglicized 
town in France — almost everyone we meet seems 
familiar with English. The Captain suggests that 
we may be interested in seeing the Casino, one of 
the licensed gambling-houses allowed in a few 
French towns. The government gets a good share 
of the profits, which are very large. We do not 
care to try our luck on the big wheel, but the Cap- 
tain has no scruples — winning freely at first, but 
quitting the loser by a goodly number of francs — 
a common experience, I suppose. The small boy 
is not allowed to enter the gambling room, from 
which minors are rigidly excluded. 

We have a glorious evening for crossing to Folke- 
stone — the dreaded Channel is on its best behavior. 
A magnificent sunset gilds the vast expanse of rip- 
pling water to the westward and flashes on the white 
chalk cliffs of the English shore. As we come 
nearer and nearer we have an increasing sense of 

135 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

getting back home — and England has for us an 
attractiveness that we did not find in France and 
Germany. 

And yet our impressions of these countries were, 
on the whole, very favorable. France, so far as 
we saw it, was a beautiful, prosperous country, 
though there was not for us the romance that so 
delighted us in England. We missed the ivied ruins 
and graceful church-towers that lend such a charm 
to the British landscapes. The highways generally 
were magnificent, though already showing deteriora- 
tion in many places. The roads of France require 
dustless surfacing — oil or asphaltum, similar to the 
methods extensively used in England. Since the 
time of our tour steps have been taken in this direc- 
tion and in time France will have by far the best 
road-system in the world. Her highways are al- 
ready broad and perfectly engineered and need only 
surfacing. About Paris much of the wretched old 
pave is still in existence, but this will surely be 
replaced before long. The roads are remarkably 
direct, radiating from the main towns like the spokes 
of a wheel, usually taking the shortest cut between 
two important points. 

The squalor and filth of the country villages in 
many sections is an unpleasant revelation to the 
tourist who has seen only the cities, which are clean 

136 



A FLIGHT THROUGH THE NORTH 

and well-improved. But for all this thrift is evi- 
dent everywhere; nothing is allowed to go to waste; 
there are no ragged, untilled corners in the fields. 
Every possible force is utilized. Horses, dogs, oxen, 
cows, goats and donkeys are all harnessed to 
loads; indeed, the Captain says there is a proverb 
in France to the effect that "the pig is the only 
gentleman,'* for he alone does not work. The wo- 
men seem to have more than their share of heavy 
disagreeable tasks, and this is no doubt another fac- 
tor in French prosperity. 

Despite the notion to the contrary, France is evi- 
dently a very religious country — in her way. Cruci- 
fixes, crosses, shrines, etc. are common along the 
country roadsides, and churches are the best and 
most important buildings in the towns and cities. 
Priests are seen everywhere and apparently have 
a strong hold on their parishioners. In view of 
such strong entrenchment, it seems a wonder that 
the government was able to completely disestablish 
the church and to require taxation of much of its 
property. 

The country policeman, so omnipresent in Eng- 
land, is rarely seen in France, and police traps in 
rural districts are unknown. Even in towns arrests 
are seldom made — the rule being to interfere only 
with motorists who drive "to the danger of the 

13T 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

public/' One misses the handy fund of information 
which an English policeman can so readily supply; 
the few French officials we questioned were appar- 
ently neither so intelligent nor accommodating. 

We were astonished to see so few motor cars 
in France, and many which we did see were those 
of touring foreigners. France, for all her lead in 
the automobile industry, does not have many cars 
herself. She prefers to sell them to the other fellow 
and keep the money. The number of cars in France 
is below the average for each of the states of the 
Union, and the majority are in Paris and vicinity. 
French cars almost dominate the English market and 
many of the taxicabs in London are of French make. 
We saw a large shipment of these on the wharves 
at Boulogne. If it were not for our tariff, we may 
be sure that France would be a serious competitor 
in the motor-car trade of the United States. There 
is absolutely no prejudice against the motorist in 
France and foreigners are warmly welcomed to 
spend their money. The Frenchman does not travel 
much — France is good enough for him and he looks 
on the Americans and Englishmen who throng his 
country as a financial asset and makes it as easy 
for them to come as he possibly can. In fact, un- 
der present conditions it is easier to tour from 
one European country to another than it is among 

188 



A PLIGHT THROUGH THE NORTH 

our own states — one can arrange with the Royal 
Automobile Club for all customs formalities and 
nothing is required except signing a few papers at 
each frontier. 

In some respects we noted a strong similarity be- 
tween France and Germany. The cities of both 
countries are clean and up-to-date, with museums, 
galleries, splendid churches and fine public build- 
ings. In both — so far as we saw — the small villages 
are primitive and filthy in the extreme and in rural 
districts the heaviest burdens appear to fall on the 
women. In both countries farming is thoroughly 
done and every available bit of land is utilized. 
Each gives intelligent attention to forestry — there 
are many forests now in their prime, young trees 
are being grown, and the roadsides are planted with 
trees. 

The roads of Germany are far behind those of 
France; nor does any great interest seem to be taken 
in highway improvement. Of course the roads are 
fairly well maintained, but there is apparently no 
effort to create a system of boulevards such as 
France possesses. Germany has even fewer motor 
cars than her neighbor, a much smaller number of 
automobile tourists enter her borders, and there is 
more hostility towards them on part of the country 
people. There are no speed traps, but one is liable 

139 



THROUGH SUMMER FRANCE 

to be arrested for fast driving in many towns and 
cities. 

The German business-man strikes one more fav- 
orably than the Frenchman; he is sturdy, good-look- 
ing and alert, and even in a small establishment 
shows the characteristics that are so rapidly push- 
ing his country to the front in a commercial way. 

But the greatest difference in favor of Germany 
— at least so far as outward appearance goes — is 
to be seen in her soldiery. Soldiers are everywhere 
— always neat and clean, with faultless uniform and 
shining accoutrements, marching with a firm, steady, 
irresistible swing. To the casual observer it would 
seem that if an army of these soldiers should enter 
France they could march directly on Paris without 
serious resistance. But some authorities say that 
German militarism is a hollow show and that there 
is more real manhood in the Frenchman. Let us 
hope the question will not have to be settled again 
on the field of battle. 

Perhaps these random impressions which I have 
been recording are somewhat superficial, but I shall 
let them stand for what they are worth. On our 
long summer jaunt through these two great coun- 
tries we have had many experiences — not all of 
them pleasant. But we have seen many things and 
learned much that would have been quite inacces- 

140 



A PLIGHT THROUGH THE NORTH 

sible to us in the old grooves of travel — thanks to 
our trusty companion of the wind-shod wheels. 
And perhaps the best possible proof that we really 
enjoyed our pilgrimage is a constantly increasing 
desire to repeat it — with variations — should our cir- 
cumstances again permit. 



141 



Odd Corners of Britain 



Odd Corners of Britain 
VIII 

THE MOTHERLAND ONCE MORE 

Back to England — back to England! Next to 
setting foot in the homeland itself, nothing could 
have been more welcome to us after our month's 
exile on the Continent. And I am not saying that 
we did not enjoy our Continental rambles; that we 
did the pages of this book amply testify. It seemed 
to us, however, that for motor touring, England 
surpasses any other country in many respects. First 
of all, the roads average vastly better — we remem- 
bered with surprise the stories we had heard of 
the greatly superior roads of France — a delusion 
entertained by many Englishmen, for that matter. 
We had also found by personal experience that the 
better English inns outclass those on the Continent 
in service and cleanliness and never attempt the 
overcharges and exactions not uncommon in France 
and Germany. The second-rate French inn, we 
are informed on good authority, is more tolerable 
than the second-rate inn of England. An exper- 

145 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

ienced English motorist told us that since expense 
was a consideration to him, he generally spent his 
vacations in France. He declared that there he 
could put up comfortably and cheaply at the less 
pretentious inns while he would never think of stop- 
ping at English hotels of the same class. I fancy, 
however, that if one follows Baedeker — our usual 
guide in such matters — and selects number one 
among the list, he will find every advantage with 
the English hotels. 

And we are sure that the English landscapes are 
the most beautiful in the world. Everywhere one 
sees trim, parklike neatness — vistas of well-tilled 
fields interspersed with great country seats, storied 
ruins and the ubiquitous church-tower so character- 
istic of Britain. It is a distinctive church-tower, 
rising from green masses of foliage such as one sel- 
dom sees elsewhere. And where else in a civilized 
country will one find such trees — splendid, beauti- 
fully proportioned trees, standing in solitary majesty 
in the fields, stretching in impressive ranks along 
the roadside or clustering in towering groups about 
some country mansion or village church? 

And who could be impervious to the charm of 
the English village? Cleanly, pleasantly situated 
and often embowered in flowers, it appeals to the 
artistic sense and affords the sharpest possible con- 

146 



the; motherland once more 

trast to the filthy and malodorous little hamlets of 
France and Germany. The cities and larger towns 
of these countries do not suffer any such disadvan- 
tage in comparison with places of the same size in 
England — but we care less for the cities, often 
avoiding them. In England, we found ourselves 
among people speaking a common language and 
far more kindly and considerate towards the 
stranger within their gates than is common on the 
Continent. We can dispense with our courier, 
too, for though he was an agreeable fellow, we 
enjoy it best alone. So, then, we are glad to be 
back in Britain and are eager to explore her high- 
ways and byways once more. 

We plan a pilgrimage to John O'Groat's house 
and of course the Royal Automobile Club is con- 
sulted. 

"We have just worked out a new route to Edin- 
burgh," said Mr. Maroney, "which avoids the 
cities and a large proportion of police traps as well. 
You leave the Great North Road at Doncaster 
and proceed northward by Boroughbridge, Wilton- 
le-Wear, Corbridge, Jedburgh and Melrose. You 
will also see some new country, as you are already 
familiar with the York-Newcastle route." 

And so we find ourselves at the Red Lion at 
Hatfield, about twenty miles out of London on the 

147 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

beginning of our northern journey. It is a cleanly, 
comfortable-looking old house, and though it is well 
after noon, an excellent luncheon is promptly served 
— the roadside inns are adapting themselves to the 
irregular hours of the motorist. 

Hatfield House — the Salisbury estate — is near 
the inn, but though we have passed it several times, 
we have never hit on one of the "open" days, and 
besides, we have lost a good deal of our ambition 
for doing palaces; half-forgotten and out-of-the-way 
places appeal more strongly now. We are soon 
away on the splendid highway which glistens from 
a heavy summer shower that fell while we 
were at luncheon. We proceed soberly, for we 
have had repeated warnings of police traps along 
the road. The country is glorious after the dash- 
ing rainfall; fields of German clover are in bloom, 
dashes of dark red amidst the prevailing green; 
long rows of sweet-scented carmine-flowered beans 
load the air with a heavy perfume. A little later, 
when we pass out of the zone of the shower we 
find hay-making in progress and everything is 
redolent of the new-mown grasses. Every little 
while we pass a village and at Stilton — I have writ- 
ten elsewhere of its famous old inn — a dirty urchin 

runs alongside the car howling, "Police traps! 

148 



THE MOTHERLAND ONCE MORE 

Look out for police traps!" until he receives a 
copper to reward his solicitude for our welfare. 

Toward evening we come in sight of Grantham's 
magnificent spire and we have the pleasantest recol- 
lections of the Angel Inn, where we stopped some 
years previously — we will close the day's journey 
here. One would never get from the Angel's mod- 
est, ivy-clad front any idea of the rambling struc- 
ture behind it; indeed, I have often wondered how 
all the labyrinth of floors, apartments and hallways 
could be crowded behind such a modest facade 
as that of the Red Lion of Banbury, the Swan of 
Mansfield or the Angel of Grantham, for example. 
Such inns are no doubt a heritage of the days when 
it was necessary to utilize every available inch of 
space within the city walls. In most cases they 
are conducted with characteristic English thorough- 
ness and are cleanly and restful, despite their anti- 
quity and the fact that they are closely hedged in 
by other buildings. As a rule part or all of the 
old inner court which formerly served as a stable- 
yard has been adapted as a motor garage. 

The Angel is said to have been in existence as 
a hostelry as early as 1208, but the arched gate- 
way opening on the street may be of still earlier 
date, having probably formed a part of some mon- 
astic building. Tradition connects Charles I. with 

149 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

the inn — an English inn of such antiquity would be 
poor indeed without a legend of the Wanderer — 
but the claims of the Angel to royal associations 
go back much farther, for King John is declared 
to have held his court here in 1213. Richard III. 
is also alleged to have stopped here and to have 
signed the death warrant of the Duke of Buck- 
ingham at the time. There is record of princely 
visitors of later dates and it is easy to see that 
the Angel has had rare distinction — from the Eng- 
lish point of view. We remember it, however, 
not so much for its traditions as for the fact that 
we are given a private sitting-room in connection 
with our bed-rooms with no apparent increase in 
the bill. Our good luck in this particular may 
have been due to the slack business at the time of 
our arrival and we could hardly expect to have 
our accommodations duplicated should we visit the 
Angel and Royal again. 

Grantham is a town of nearly twenty thousand 
people, though it does not so impress the stranger 
who rambles about its streets. Two or three large 
factories are responsible for its size, but these have 
little altered its old-time heart. The center of this 
is marked by St. Wulfram's Church, one of the 
noblest parish churches in the Kingdom. Its spire, 
a shapely Gothic needle of solid stone, rises nearly 

150 




ST. WULFRAMS CHURCH-GRANTHAM 



THE MOTHERLAND ONCE MORE 

three hundred feet into the heavens, springing from 
a massive square tower perhaps half the total height. 
The building shows nearly all Gothic styles, though 
the Decorated and Early English predominate. It 
dates from the thirteenth century and has many 
interesting monuments and tombstones. Its gar- 
goyles, we agreed, were as curious as any we saw 
in England; uncanny monsters and queer demons 
leer upon one from almost any viewpoint. Inside 
there is a marvelously carved baptismal font and 
a chained library of the sixteenth century similar 
to the one in Wimborne Minster. Altogether, St. 
Wulfram's is one of the notable English country 
churches, though perhaps among the lesser known. 
Grantham also possesses an ancient almshouse of 
striking architecture and a grammar school which 
once included among its pupils Sir Isaac Newton, 
who was born at Woolsthorpe Manor, near the 
town. 

Old Whitby appeals to our recollection as worth 
a second visit and we depart from our prearranged 
route at Doncaster, reaching York in the late after- 
noon. It has been a cold, rainy day and we can- 
not bring ourselves to pass the Station Hotel, though 
Whitby is but fifty miles farther and might be 
reached before nightfall. 

We have previously visited York many times, 
l&l 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

but have given our time mainly to the show-places 
and we devote the following forenoon to the shops. 
There are many interesting book-stalls and no end 
of antique-stores with many costly curios, such as 
a Scotch claymore, accompanied by documents to 
prove that it once belonged to Prince Charlie. The 
shops, it seemed to us, were hardly up to standard 
for a city of nearly one hundred thousand. But 
York, while of first rank as an ecclesiastical seat 
and famous for its quaint corners and antiquity, is 
not of great commercial or manufacturing import- 
ance. It is a busy railroad center, with hundreds 
of trains daily, and next to Chester probably at- 
tracts a greater number of tourists than any other 
English provincial town. Leeds, Bradford, Shef- 
field, Hull, Middlesbrough, Halifax and Hudders- 
field are all Yorkshire cities with larger population 
and greater commercial activities. Of English 
churches we should be inclined to give York Cathe- 
dral first place, though viewpoints on such matters 
are so widely different that this may be disputed 
by good authorities. In size, striking architecture 
and beautiful windows, it is certainly not surpassed, 
though it has not the historical associations of many 
of its rivals. 

Whitby is but fifty miles from York. An ex- 
cellent road runs through a green, prosperous coun- 

152 



THE MOTHERLAND ONCE MORE 

try as far as Pickering — about a score of mile 
but beyond this we plunge into the forbidding hills 
of the bleakest, blackest of English moors. It is 
too early for the heather-bloom, which will brighten 
the dreary landscape a few weeks later, and a driz- 
zling rain is falling from lowering clouds. The stony 
road, with steep grades and sharp turns, requires 
closest attention and, altogether, it is a run that is 
pleasant only in retrospect when reviewed from a 
cozy arm-chair by the evening fire. 

I am going to write a chapter giving our im- 
pressions of Old Whitby which, I hope, will re- 
flect a little of its charm and romance, so we may 
pass it here. We resume our journey after a pleas- 
ant pause in the old town and proceed by Guis- 
borough, Stockton and Darlington to Bishop Auck- 
land, where we again take up our northern route. 

Bishop Auckland gets its ecclesiastical prefix 
from the fact that since the time of Edward I. it 
has been the site of one the palaces of the Bishops 
of Durham. The present building covers a space 
of no less than five acres and is surrounded by a 
park more than a square mile in extent. The pal- 
ace is splendid and spacious, though very irregular, 
the result of additions made from time to time in 
varying architectural styles. It is easy to see how 
the maintenance of such an establishment— and 

153 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

others besides — keeps the good bishop poor, though 
his salary is about the same as that of the President 
of the United States. The town is pleasantly sit- 
uated on an eminence near the confluence of the 
river Wear and a smaller stream. About a mile 
distant, at Escomb, is a church believed to date 
from the seventh century. It is quite small but very 
solidly built, the walls tapering upward from the 
ground, and some of the bricks incorporated in 
it are clearly of Roman origin, one of them bearing 
an old Latin inscription. 

Bishop Auckland marks the western termination 
of Durham's green fields and fine parks; we de- 
scend a steep, rough hill and soon find ourselves on 
a very bad road leading through a bleak mining 
country. Tow-Law is the first of several bald, an- 
gular villages with scarce a tree or shrub to relieve 
their nakedness; the streets are thronged with dirty, 
ragged urchins and slatternly women sit on the 
doorsteps along the road. The country is disfig- 
ured with unsightly buildings and piles of waste 
fiom the coal-mines; and the air is loaded with 
sooty vapors. It is a relief to pass into the pictur- 
esque hills of Northumberland, where, even though 
the road does not improve, there are many charm- 
ing panoramas of wooded vales with here and 
there a church-tower, a ruin or a village. Towns 

154 



THE MOTHERLAND ONCE MORE 

on the road are few; we cross the Tyne at Cor- 
bridge, where a fine old bridge flings its high stone 
arches across the wide river. It is the oldest on 
the Tyne, having braved the floods for nearly two 
centuries and a half. In 1771 a great flood swept 
away every other bridge on the river, but this 
sturdy structure survived to see the era of the motor 
car. A bridge has existed at this point almost con- 
tinuously since Roman times, and the Roman piers 
might have been seen until very recently. The vi- 
cinity is noted for Roman remains — sections of the 
Great Wall and the site of a fortified camp being 
near at hand. Many relics have been discovered 
near by and researches are still going on. The 
village by the bridge is small and unimportant, 
though it has an ancient church which shows traces 
of Roman building materials. Most remarkable is 
the Peel tower in the churchyard, where the par- 
son is supposed to have taken refuge during the 
frequent Scotch incursions of the border wars. 

Leaving the bridge we follow the Roman Wat- 
ling Street, which proceeds in almost a straight line 
through the hills. It leads through a country famous 
in song and story; every hill and valley is remin- 
iscent of traditions of the endless border wars in 
which Northumberland figured so largely and for 
so many years. Its people, too, were generally 

155 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

adherents of the Stuarts and it was near the village 
of Woodburn, through which we pass, that the 
Jacobites attacked the forces of George I., only 
to meet with crushing defeat, resulting in the ruin 
of many of the noblest families of the county. A 
little farther, in the vale of Otterburn, was the scene 
of the encounter of the retainers of Douglas and 
Percy, celebrated in many a quaint ballad. In the 
next few miles are Byrness and Catcleugh, two fine 
country-seats quite near the roadside, and there is 
a diminutive but very old church close to the for- 
mer house. Byrness is the seat of a famous fox- 
hunting squire who keeps a large pack of hounds 
and pursues the sport with great zeal. The wild, 
broken country and sparse population are especially 
favorable to hunting in the saddle. There is no 
lack of genuine sport, since the wild fox is a men- 
ace to lambs and must be relentlessly pursued to the 
death. Just opposite Catcleugh House a fine lake 
winds up the valley for nearly two miles. It seems 
prosaic when we learn that it is an artificial reser- 
voir, affording a water supply for Newcastle-on- 
Tyne, but it is none the less a charming accessory 
to the scenery. Beyond this the road runs through 
almost unbroken solitude until it crosses the crest 
of the Cheviots and enters the hills of Scotland. 



156 



IX 

OLD WHITBY 

It is a gray, lowering evening when we climb 
the sharply rising slope to the Royal Hotel to take 
up our domicile for a short sojourn in Old Whitby. 
The aspect of the town on a dull wet evening when 
viewed from behind a broad window-pane is not 
without its charm, though I may not be competent 
to reflect that charm in my printed page. It is a 
study in somber hues, relieved only by the mass 
of glistening red tiles clustered on the opposite hill- 
side and by an occasional lighted window. The 
skeleton of the abbey and dark solid bulk of St. 
Mary's Church are outlined against the light gray 
of the skies, which, on the ocean side, bend down 
to a restless sea, itself so gray that you could 
scarce mark the dividing line were it not for the 
leaden-colored waves breaking into tumbling masses 
of white foam. Looking up the narrow estuary 
into which the Esk discharges its waters, one gets 
a dim view of the mist-shrouded hills on either side 
and of numerous small boats and sailing vessels rid- 
ing at anchor on the choppy waves. 

157 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

It is a wild evening, but we are tempted to under- 
take a ramble about the town, braving the gusty 
blasts that sweep through the narrow lanes and the 
showers of spray that envelop the bridge by which 
one crosses to the opposite side of the inlet. There 
is little stirring on the streets and the alleylike lanes 
are quite deserted. Most of the shops are closed 
and only the lights streaming from windows of the 
houses on the hillside give relief to the deepening 
shadows. The gathering darkness and the increas- 
ing violence of the wind deter us from our purpose 
of climbing the long flight of steps to the summit 
of the cliff on which the abbey stands and we slow- 
ly wend our way back to the hotel. 

The following morning a marked change has 
taken place. The mists of the previous evening 
have been swept away and the intensely blue sky 
is mottled with white vapory clouds which scurry 
along before a stiff sea-breeze. The deep indigo 
blue of the ocean is flecked with masses of white 
foam rolling landward on the crests of the waves, 
which break into spray on the rocks and piers. The 
sea-swell enters the estuary, tossing the numerous 
fishing smacks which ride at anchor and lending a 
touch of animation to the scene. The abbey ruin 
and church, always the dominating feature of East 
Cliff, stand out clearly against the silvery horizon 

158 



OLD WHITBY 

and present a totally different aspect from that which 
impressed us last evening. In the searching light 
of day, the broken arches and tottering walls tell 
plainly the story of the ages of neglect and plunder 
that they have undergone and speak unmistakably 
of a vanished order of things. Last night, shrouded 
as they were in mysterious shadows, the traces of 
wreck and ruin were half concealed and it did not 
require an extraordinarily vivid imagination to pic- 
ture the great structures as they were in their prime 
and to re-people them with their ancient habitants, 
the gray monks and nuns. To-day the red and 
white flag of St. George is flying from the low 
square tower of St. Mary's and crowds of Sunday 
worshipers are ascending the broad flight of stairs. 
Services have been held continuously in the plain 
old edifice for seven centuries — its remote situation 
and lack of anything to attract the looter or enrage 
the iconoclast kept it safe during the period which 
desecrated or destroyed so many churches. 

The history of a town like Whitby is not of 
much moment to the casual sojourner, who is apt 
to find himself more attracted by its romance than 
by sober facts. Still, we are glad to know that 
the place is very ancient, dating back to Saxon 
times. It figured in the wars with the Danes and 
in the ninth century was so devastated as to be 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

almost obliterated for two hundred years. It was 
not until the reign of Elizabeth that it took rank 
as a seaport. The chief industry up to the last 
century was whale-fishing, and a hardy race of 
sea-faring men was bred in the town, among them 
Captain Cook, the famous explorer. While fishing 
was ostensibly the chief means of livelihood of the 
inhabitants of Whitby, it could hardly have been 
wholly responsible for the wealth that was enough 
to attract Robin Hood and his retainers to the 
town and they did not go away empty-handed by 
any means. The Abbot of Whitby protected his 
own coffers by showing the outlaw every courtesy, 
but Robin was not so considerate of the purses of 
the townspeople. Probably he felt little compunc- 
tion at easing the reputed fishermen of their wealth, 
for he doubtless knew that it was gained by smug- 
gling and it was, after all, only a case of one out- 
law fleecing another. The position of the town 
behind some leagues of sterile moor, traversed by 
indifferent and even dangerous roads, was especially 
favorable for such an irregular occupation; and it 
moreover precluded Whitby from figuring in the 
great events of the Kingdom, being so far removed 
from the theatre of action. With the decline of 
the whale-fisheries, the mining and manufacture of 
jet began to assume considerable proportion and is 

160 



OLD WHITBY 

to-day one of the industries of the place. This is 
a bituminous substance — in the finished product, 
smooth, lustrous and intensely black. It is fashioned 
into personal ornaments of many kinds and was 
given a great vogue by Queen Victoria. It is 
found only in the vicinity of Whitby and is sold 
the world over, though it has to compete with cheap 
imitations, usually made of glass. 

St. Hilda's Abbey is the chief monument of antiq- 
uity in Whitby and aside from actual history it 
has the added interest of being interwoven with 
the romantic lines of Scott's "Marmion." Situated 
on the summit of East Cliff, it has been for several 
centuries the last object to bid farewell to the de- 
parting mariner and the first to gladden his eyes 
on his return. Seldom indeed did the old monks 
select such a site; they were wont to seek some 
more sheltered spot on the shore of lake or river — 
as at Rievaulx, Fountains or Easby. But this 
abbey was founded under peculiar conditions, for 
the original was built as far back as 658 in ful- 
fillment of a vow made by King Oswy of North- 
umbria. In accordance with the spirit of his time, 
the king made an oath on the verge of a battle 
with one of his petty neighbors that if God granted 
him the victory he would found an abbey and that 
his own daughter, the Lady Hilda, should be first 

161 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

abbess. All traces of this early structure have dis- 
appeared, but it was doubtless quite insignificant 
compared with its successor, for the Saxons never 
progressed very far in the art of architecture. The 
fame of Hilda's piety and intelligence attracted 
many scholars to the abbey, among them Caedmon, 
"the father of English poetry," who, as the inscrip- 
tion on the stately memorial in St. Mary's church- 
yard reads, "fell asleep hard by A. D. 680." The 
death of the good abbess also occurred in the same 
year. Her successor, Elfleda, governed for a third 
of a century, after which little record remains. The 
original abbey was probably destroyed in the Dan- 
ish wars. It was revived after the Conquest in 
1078 by monks of the Benedictine order and grad- 
ually a vast pile of buildings was erected on the 
headland, but of these only the ruined church re- 
mains. The great size and splendid design of the 
church would seem to indicate that in its zenith 
of power and prosperity Whitby Abbey must have 
been of first rank. Its active history ended with 
its dissolution by Henry VIII. Scott in "Mar- 
mion" represents the abbey as being under the 
sway of an abbess in 1513, the date of Flodden, 
but this is an anachronism, since an abbot ruled 
it in its last days and the nuns had long before 
vanished from its cloisters. 

162 



OLD WHITBY 

He was a pretty poor saint in the "days of 
faith" who did not have several miracles or marvels 
to his credit and St. Hilda was no exception to the 
rule. One legend runs that the early inhabitants 
were pestered by snakes and that the saint prayed 
that the reptiles be transmuted into stone; and for 
ages the ammonite shells which abound on the coast 
and faintly resemble a coiled snake were pointed 
out as evidence of the efficacy of Hilda's petition. 
It was also said of the sea-birds that flew over 
Whitby's towers that 

"Sinking down on pinions faint, 
They do their homage to the saint." 
And an English writer humorously suggests that 
perhaps "the birds had a certain curiosity to see 
what was going on in this mixed brotherhood of 
monks and nuns." The most persistent marvel, 
however, which was credited by the more super- 
stitious less than a century ago, was that from West 
Cliff under certain conditions the saint herself, 
shrouded in white, might be seen standing in one 
of the windows of the ruin; though it is now clear 
that the apparition was the result of a peculiar 
reflection of the sun's rays. 

The salt sea winds, the driving rain of summer 
and the wild winter storms have wrought much 
havoc in the eight hundred years that "High Whit- 

163 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

by's cloistered pile" has braved the elements. A 
little more than fifty years ago the central tower 
crashed to earth, carrying many of the surrounding 
arches with it, and the mighty fragments still lie 
as they fell. The remaining walls and arches are 
now guarded with the loving care which is being 
lavished to-day upon the historic ruins of England 
and one can only regret that the spirit which in- 
spires it was not aroused at least a hundred 
years ago. 

St. Mary's, a stone's throw from the abbey, is 
one of the crudest and least ornate of any of the 
larger churches which we saw in England. Its 
lack of architectural graces may be due to the fact 
that it was originally built — about 1110, by de 
Percy, Abbot of Whitby — for "the use of the 
common people of the town," the elaborate abbey 
church being reserved for the monks. Perhaps the 
worthy abbot little dreamed that the plain, massive 
structure which he thought good enough for the 
laity would be standing, sturdy and strong and still 
in daily use centuries after his beautiful abbey fane, 
with its graceful arches, its gorgeous windows and 
splendid towers had fallen into hopeless ruin. All 
around the church are blackened old gravestones 
in the midst of which rises the tall Caedmon Cross, 
erected but a few years ago. To reach St. Mary's 

164 




PIER LANE, WHITBY 

From original painting by J. V. Jelley, exhibited in 
1910 Royal Academy 



OLD WHITBY 

one must ascend the hundred and ninety-nine broad 
stone steps that lead up the cliff — a task which 
would test the zeal of many church-goers in these 
degenerate days. 

We enjoyed our excursions about the town, for 
among the network of narrow lanes we came upon 
many odd nooks and corners and delightful old 
shops. The fish-market, where the modest catch 
of local fishermen is sold each day, is on the west 
side. The scene here is liveliest during the months 
of August and September, when the great harvest 
of the sea is brought in at Whitby. It was on 
the west side, too, that we found Pier Lane after 
a dint of inquiry — for the little Royal Academy 
picture which graces these pages had made us 
anxious to see the original. Many of the natives 
shook their heads dubiously when we asked for 
directions, but a friendly policeman finally piloted 
us to the entrance of the lane. It proved a mere 
brick-paved passageway near the fish-market, about 
five or six feet in width, and from the top we 
caught the faint glimpse of the abbey which the 
artist has introduced into the picture. It is one of 
the many byways that intersect the main streets of 
the town — though these streets themselves are often 
so narrow and devious as to scarce deserve the 
adjective I have applied to them. Whitby has no 

165 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

surprises in overhanging gables, carved oak beams, 
curiously paneled doorways or other bits of artistic 
architecture such as delight one in Ludlow, Canter- 
bury or Shrewsbury. Everything savors of utility; 
the oldtime Yorkshire fisherman had no time and 
little inclination to carve oak and stone for his 
dwelling. I am speaking of the old Whitby, 
crowded along the waterside — the new town, with 
its ostentatious hotels and lodging-houses, extends 
along the summit of West Cliff and while very 
necessary, no doubt, it adds nothing to the charm 
of the place. As an English artist justly observes, 
"While Whitby is one of the most strikingly pic- 
turesque towns in England, it has scarcely any 
architectural attractions. Its charm does not lie so 
much in detail as in broad effects" — the effects of 
the ruin, the red roofs, the fisher-boats, the sea and 
the old houses, which vary widely under the 
moods of sun and shade that flit over the place. 
The words of a writer who notes this variation 
throughout a typical day are so true to life that 
I am going to repeat them here: 

"In the early morning the East Cliff generally 
appears merely as a pale gray silhouette with a 
square projection representing the church, and a 
fretted one the abbey. But as the sun climbs up- 
wards, colour and definition grow out of the haze 

166 



OLD WHITBY 

of smoke and shadows, and the roofs assume their 

ruddy tones. At midday, when the sunlight pours 

down upon the medley of houses clustered along 

the face of the cliff, the scene is brilliantly colored. 

The predominant note is the red of the chimneys 

and roofs and stray patches of brickwork, but the 

walls that go down to the water's edge are green 

below and full of rich browns above, and in many 

places the sides of the cottages are coloured with 

an ochre wash, while above them all the top of 

the cliff appears covered with grass. On a clear 

day, when detached clouds are passing across the 

sun, the houses are sometimes lit up in the strangest 

fashion, their quaint outlines being suddenly thrown 

out from the cliff by a broad patch of shadow upon 

the grass and rocks behind. But there is scarcely 

a chimney in this old part of Whitby that does 

not contribute to the mist of blue-gray smoke that 

slowly drifts up the face of the cliff, and thus, when 

there is no bright sunshine, colour and detail are 

subdued in the haze. M 

In St. Mary's churchyard there is another cross 

besides the stately memorial dedicated to Caedmon 

that will be pointed out to you — a small, graceful 

Celtic cross with the inscription: 

"Here lies the body of Mary Linskill. 
Bom December 1 3, 1 840. Died April 9, 1 89 1 . 
After life's fitful fever she sleeps well 
Between the Heather and the Northern Sea." 
167 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

If Caedmon was Whitby's first literary idol, 
Mary Linskill is the last and best loved, for hun- 
dreds of Whitby people living to-day knew the 
gentle authoress personally. She was a native of 
the town and being early dependent on her own 
resources, she served an apprenticeship in a milli- 
ner's shop and later acted as an amanuensis to a 
literary gentleman. It was in this position, prob- 
ably, that she discovered her own capacity for 
writing and her ability to tell a homely story in a 
simple, pleasing way. Her first efforts in the way 
of short stories appeared in "Good Words." Her 
first novel, "Cleveden," was published in 1876 and 
many others followed at various intervals. Perhaps 
the best known are distinctly Whitby stories — 
"The Haven Under the Hill," and "Between the 
Heather and the Northern Sea." Her novels in 
simplicity of plot and quiet sentiment may be com- 
pared with those of Jane Austen, though her rank 
as a writer is far below that of the Hampshire 
authoress. Her stories show a wealth of imagina- 
tion and a true artistic temperament, but they are 
often too greatly dominated by melancholy to be 
widely popular. Most of them dwell on the infi- 
nite capacity of women for self-sacrifice and some- 
times the pathetic scenes may be rather overdrawn. 
There are many beautiful descriptive passages and 

16? 



OLD WHITBY 

I quote one from "The Haven Under the Hill/* 
because it sets forth in such a delightful manner 
the charm of Old Whitby itself: 

"Everywhere there was the presence of the sea. 
On the calmest day you heard the low, ceaseless 
roll of its music as it plashed and swept about the 
foot of the stern, darkly towering cliffs on either 
side of the harbour-bar. Everywhere the place 
was blown through and through with the salt breeze 
that was 'half an air and half a water,' scented 
with sea-wrack and laden not rarely with drifting 
flakes of heavy yeastlike foam. 

"The rapid growth of the town had been owing 
entirely to its nearness to the sea. When the mak- 
ing of alum was begun at various points and bays 
along the coast, vessels were needed for carrying 
it to London, 'whither,' as an old chronicler tells 
us, 'nobody belonging to Hild's Haven had ever 
gone without making their wills.' This was the 
beginning of the shipbuilding trade, which grew 
and flourished so vigorously, lending such an inter- 
est to the sights and sounds of the place, and finally 
becoming its very life. What would the old haven 
have been without the clatter of its carpenters' 
hammers, the whir of its ropery wheels, the smell 
of its boiling tar-kettles, the busy stir and hum of 
its docks and wharves and mast-yards? And 

169 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

where, in the midst of so much labour, could there 
have been found any time to laugh or to dance, 
but for the frequent day of pride and rejoicing 
when the finished ship with her flying flags came 
slipping slowly from the stocks to the waiting 
waters, bending and gliding with a grace that gave 
you as much emotion as if you had watched some 
conscious thing?. . . .It is a little sad to know that 
one has watched the launching of the last wooden 
ship that shall go out with stately masts and round- 
ing sails from the Haven Under the Hill. 

"Those of the men of the place who were not 
actually sailors were yet, for the most part, in some 
way dependent upon the great, changeful, boun- 
teous sea. 

"It was a beautiful place to have been born in, 
beautiful with history and poetry and legend — 
with all manner of memorable and soul-stirring 
things." 

The house where Mary Linskill was born, a 
plain stone structure in the old town, still stands 
and is the goal of occasional pilgrims who delight 
in the humbler shrines of letters. 

It seems indeed appropriate that the old sea 
town, famous two centuries ago for its shipbuilding 
trade and hardy mariners, should have given to 
the world one of its great sea-captains and ex- 

170 



ODD WHITBY 

plorers. A mere lad, James Cook came to Whitby 
as the apprentice of a shipbuilder. His master's 
house, where he lived during his apprenticeship, still 
stands in Grape Lane and bears an antique tablet 
with the date 1688. Cook's career as an explorer 
began when he entered the Royal Navy in 1768. 
He was then forty years of age and had already 
established a reputation as a daring and efficient 
captain in the merchant service. He made three 
famous voyages to the south seas, and as a result 
of these, Australia and New Zealand are now a 
part of the British Empire, an achievement which 
will forever keep his name foremost among the 
world's great explorers. He lost his life in a fight 
with the natives of the Sandwich Islands in 1777, 
a year after the American Declaration of Inde- 
pendence. His mangled remains were buried in 
the sea whose mysteries he had done so much to 
subdue. 

I am sensible that in these random notes I have 
signally failed to set forth the varied charms of the 
ancient fisher-town on the Northern Sea, but I 
have the consolation that all the descriptions and 
encomiums I have read have the same failing to a 
greater or less degree. I know that we feel, as we 
speed across the moorland on the wild windy 
morning of our departure, that two sojourns in 

171 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

Whitby are not enough; and are already solacing 
ourselves with the hope that we shall some time 
make a third visit to the "Haven Under the Hill." 



172 



X 

SCOTT COUNTRY AND HEART OF HIGHLANDS 

So rough and broken is the Northumberland 
country that we are scarcely aware when we enter 
the Cheviot Hills, which mark the dividing line 
between England and Scotland. The road is now 
much improved; having been recently resurfaced 
with reddish stone, it presents a peculiar aspect as 
it winds through the green hills ahead of us, often 
visible for a considerable distance. It is compara- 
tively unfrequented; there are no villages for many 
miles and even solitary cottages are rare; one need 
not worry about speed limits here. Jedburgh is 
the first town after crossing the border and there 
are few more majestic ruins in all Scotland than 
the ancient abbey which looms high over the town. 
It recalls the pleasantest recollections of our former 
visit and the wonder is that it does not attract a 
greater number of pilgrims. 

We are again in an enchanted land, where every 
name reminds us of the domain of the Wizard of 
the North! Here all roads lead to Melrose and 
Abbotsford, and we remember the George as a 

173 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

comfortable, well-ordered inn, a fit haven for the 
end of a strenuous day. There are several good 
hotels in Melrose, made possible by the ceaseless 
stream of tourists bound to Abbotsford in summer- 
time. We reach the George after the dinner hour, 
but an excellent supper is prepared for us, served 
by a canny Scotch waiter clad in a cleaner dress- 
suit than many of his brethren in British country 
inns are wont to wear. We have no fault to find 
with the George except that its beds were not so 
restful as one might wish after a day on rough 
roads and its stable-yard garage lacked conven- 
iences. These shortcomings may now be remedied, 
for the spirit of improvement is strong among the 
inns of tourist centers in Scotland. 

The abbey is but a stone's throw from the hotel 
and one will never weary of it though he come to 
Melrose for the hundredth time. In delicate artis- 
tic touches, in beauty of design and state of pres- 
ervation as a whole, it is quite unrivalled in Scot- 
land. But for all that Melrose would be as un- 
frequented as Dundrennan or Arbroath were it not 
for the mystic spell which the Wizard cast over 
it in his immortal "Lay," and were it not under 
the shadow of Abbotsford. 

Abbotsford! What a lure there is in the very 
name! In the early morning we are coursing down 

174 



SCOTT COUNTRY AND HEART OF HIGHLANDS 

the shady lane that leads to the stately mansion and 
reach it just after the opening hour. We are in- 
deed fortunate in avoiding a crowd like that which 
thronged it on our former visit; we are quite alone 
and the purchase of a few souvenirs puts us on a 
friendly footing with the gray-haired custodian. 
His daily task has become to him a labor of love 
and he speaks the words, "Sir Walter," with a 
fervor and reverence such as a religious devotee 
might utter the name of his patron saint. He shows 
us many odd corners and relics which we missed 
before and tells us the story of the house, with 
every detail of which he is familiar. And, indeed, 
it is interesting to learn how Scott as a youth ad- 
mired the situation and as he gained wealth bought 
the land and began the house. Its construction ex- 
tended over several years and he had scarcely pro- 
nounced it complete and prepared to spend his old 
age in the home which he almost adored, when 
the blow fell. Everything was swept away and 
Scott, the well-to-do country laird, was a pauper. 
He did not see much of Abbotsford in the few 
years he had yet to live, though through the con- 
sideration of his creditors he remained nominally in 
possession. His days were devoted to the task of 
paying a gigantic debt which he conceived himself 
honor-bound to assume, though he might easily 

175 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

have evaded it by taking advantage of the law. 
Reflecting — after the lapse of nearly a century — 
who shall say that the world is not vastly the richer 
for its heritage of the sublime self-sacrifice, the hero- 
ism and flawless integrity of Walter Scott? 

The Abbotsford we see to-day has been con- 
siderably altered and added to since Scott's time, 
though the rooms shown to visitors remain precisely 
as he left them. The estate, considerably dimin- 
ished, is still in possession of the family, the Hon. 
Mrs. Maxwell-Scott, the great-granddaughter of 
the author, being the present owner. She is her- 
self of a literary turn and has written "The Making 
of Abbotsford," an interesting history of the place. 
The family is not wealthy and it was announced a 
few years ago that the sale of the estate had be- 
come necessary, though, happily, this was avoided. 

Our guide tells us that the home is usually 
leased during the "season" each year for three 
hundred pounds and Americans are oftenest the 
takers. Both the house and grounds are well-cared- 
for and we have many glimpses of smooth green 
lawns and flower gardens from the windows and 
open doors. The river, too, is near at hand and 
lends much to the air of enchantment that envelops 
Abbotsford, for we know how Scott himself loved 
the "silver stream" so often referred to in his 

176 



SCOTT COUNTRY AND HEART OF HIGHLANDS 

writings. Indeed, as we leave we cannot but feel 
that our second visit has been even more delightful 
than our first — despite the novelty of first impres- 
sions. 

On our return, the picturesque old Peel tower 
at Darnick village catches our eye. It stands in 
well-kept grounds, the smooth lawn studded with 
trees and shrubs, and the gray stone walls and 
towers are shrouded by masses of ivy. It is the 
most perfect of the few remaining Peel towers in 
Scotland — little fortress-homes of the less important 
gentry four or five hundred years ago. These 
towers were usually built in groups of three, ar- 
ranged in triangular form, to afford better oppor- 
tunity for mutual defense against an enemy. Scott 
in his "Border Antiquities" tells something of these 
miniature castles: 

"The smaller gentlemen, whether heads of 
branches or clems, or of distinct families, inhabited 
dwellings upon a smaller scale, called Peels or 
Bastile-houses. They were surrounded by an en- 
closure, or barmkin, the walls whereof, according 
to statute, were a yard thick, surrounding a space 
of at least sixty feet square. Within this outer 
work the laird built his tower, with its projecting 
battlements, and usually secured the entrance by 
two doors, the outer of grated iron, the innermost 

177 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

of oak clenched with nails. The apartments were 
placed directly over each other, accessible only by 
a narrow turn-pike stair, easily blocked up or de- 
fended." 

Darnick, as I have intimated, is the best pre- 
served of the towers now in existence, being almost 
in its original state, and it has very appropriately 
been adapted as a museum of relics, chiefly of 
Scottish history, though there is some antique fur- 
niture and many curious weapons from abroad. 

As we follow our guide about the cramped little 
rooms and up the narrow, twisting stairways, we 
cannot but think that the place is much more like 
a jail or prison than a gentleman's home — showing 
how the disturbed conditions of the country af- 
fected domestic life. The caretaker is an unusually 
communicative Scotchman, well-posted on every- 
thing connected with Darnick Tower and its con- 
tents, and proves to be not without a touch of senti- 
ment. Taking from the glass case a rare old silver- 
mounted pistol, he places it in the hands of the 
small boy of our party. "Now, my lad, ye can 
always say that ye have held in your ain hands a 
pistol that was ance carried by bonnie Prince 
Charlie himselV And we all agree that it is no 
small thing for a boy to be able to say that; it will 
furnish him with material for many flights of fancy 

178 



SCOTT COUNTRY AND HEART OP HIGHLANDS 

— even if Prince Charlie never saw the pistol. 
There are also some of Mary Stuart's endless em- 
broideries — we have seen enough of them to stock 
a good-sized shop, but they may have all been 
genuine, since the poor queen had nothing else to 
do for years and years. These are typical of Dar- 
nick's treasures, which, with the rare old tower 
itself, may well claim an hour of the Abbotsford 
tourist's time. And he may recall that Sir Walter 
himself was greatly enamored of the old Peel and 
sought many times to annex it to his estate, but the 
owner would never sell. 

"Auld Reekie" has seldom been hospitable to 
us in the way of weather. Of our many visits — I 
forget how many — only one or two were favored 
with sunny skies. The first I well recall, since we 
came to the old city on our national holiday, only 
to find the temperature a little above freezing and 
to encounter a bitter wind that seemed to pierce 
to the very bone. And again we are watching the 
rain-drenched city from our hotel window and 
wondering how we shall best pass such a dull day. 
We are familiar with the show-places of the town 
— we have seen the castle, Holyrood, John Knox's 
house, St. Giles, the galleries, the University, Scott's 
monument and his town house on Castle Street 
where "Waverley" was written — all these and 

179 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

many other places of renown have no longer the 
charm of novelty. We don our rain-proofs and 
call at the studio of an artist friend, who conducts 
us to the Academy exhibit, where we discover the 
beautiful "Harvest Time, Strathtay," which adorns 
this book. We confess a weakness for antique- 
shops, especially those where a slender purse stands 
some show, and our friend leads us to the oddest 
curio-shop we have seen in our wanderings. It is 
entered from an out-of-the-way inner court by a 
dark, narrow flight of stairs and once inside you 
must pause a moment to get your bearings. For 
piled everywhere in promiscuous heaps, some of 
them reaching to the ceiling, is every conceivable 
article that one might expect to find in such a place, 
as well as a thousand and one that he would never 
expect to see. From a dark corner issues the pro- 
prietor, an alert, gray-bearded old gentleman who 
we soon find is an authority in his line and, strange 
to say, all this endless confusion is order to him, for 
he has no difficulty in laying his hands on anything 
he seeks. He shows us about the dimly lighted 
place, descanting upon his wares, but making little 
effort to sell them. We are free to select the few 
articles that strike our fancy — there is no urging 
and few suggestions on his part; he names the 
modest price and the deal is completed. When 

180 




u 

.5 






w 

Ph 

02 © 

HI 

fcr CO 
W u 



be 



d 

a 



SCOTT COUNTRY AND HEART OF HIGHLANDS 

we come to leave we are surprised to find that we 
have lingered in the queer old shop a couple of 
hours. 

Edinburgh shops, especially on Princes Street, 
are handsome, large and well-stocked and are only 
second to the historic shrines with the average tour- 
ist. The town is a great publishing center and 
there are bookstores where the bibliophile might 
wish to linger indefinitely. Scotch plaids and tar- 
tans are much in evidence wherever textiles are 
sold and jewelers will show you the cairngorm first 
of all — a yellow quartz-crystal found in the Highland 
hills. Such things are peculiarly Scotch and of 
course are in great favor with the souvenir-seeking 
tourist. 

The rain ceases towards evening and from our 
hotel window we have a fine prospect of the city. 
It is clean and fresh after the heavy drenching and 
glistens in the declining sun, which shines fitfully 
through the breaking clouds. There have been 
many poetical eulogies and descriptions since Burns 
addressed his lines to "Edina, Scotia's Darling 
Seat," but W. E. Henley's "From a Window in 
Princes Street" seems to us most faithfully to give 
the impression of the city as we see it now: 
"Above the crags that fade and gloom 
Starts the bare knee of Arthur's seat: 

181 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

Ridged high against the evening bloom, 
The Old Town rises, street on street; 
With lamps bejewelled; straight ahead 
Like rampired walls the houses lean, 
All spired and domed and turreted, 
Sheer to the valley's darkling green; 
While heaped against the western grey, 
The Castle, menacing and severe, 
Juts gaunt into the dying day; 
And in the silver dusk you hear, 
Reverberated from crag and scar, 
Bold bugles blowing points of war." 

We watch the changing view until the twilight 
gathers and the lamps begin to appear here and 
there. 

We are bound for the heart of the Highlands. 
Our route is to lead through the "Kingdom of 
Fife" to Perth and from thence to Braemar, the 
most famous Scotch inland resort. Having already 
crossed the Forth at Queensferry, we decide to take 
the Granton-Burntisland boat, which crosses the 
estuary some six miles farther east. We find ex- 
cellent provision for the transport of motor cars and 
our boat carries three besides our own. Landing 
at Burntisland, we follow the coast through Kirk- 
caldy to Largo. 

The attraction at the latter place is a little 

182 



SCOTT COUNTRY AND HEART OP HIGHLANDS 

antique-shop close by the roadside in the village 
where two years before we found what we thought 
astonishing bargains in old silver, and our judgment 
was confirmed by an Edinburgh silversmith to 
whom we afterwards showed our purchases. The 
shopman had little of his wares in sight when we 
entered, but he kept bringing out article after article 
from some hidden recess until he had an amazing 
array before us. There was old silver galore, much 
of it engraved with armorial devices which the 
dealer said he had purchased at public auctions 
where the effects of old families^were being turned 
into cash — not an uncommon occurrence in Britain 
these days. His prices were much less than those 
of city shops, and we were so well pleased with 
our few selections on our first visit that we 
think it worth while to visit Largo again. 
The shopman has not forgotten us and our 
finds are quite as satisfactory as < before. 
And I must say that of all the odds and ends which 
we have acquired in our twenty-thousand miles of 
motoring in Europe, our old silver gives us the 
greatest satisfaction. It is about the safest purchase 
one can make, since the hall-mark guarantees its 
genuineness and it has a standard value anywhere. 
It cannot be bought to advantage in cities or tourist 
centers, where high prices are always demanded. 

183 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

The same conditions will doubtless prevail in the 
more remote country villages as the motor car brings 
an increased number of buyers. 

From Largo we traverse narrow byroads to 
Cupar, the county town of Fife. It is substantially 
built of gray stone and slate, but is not of much 
historic importance. The surrounding country is 
well-tilled and prosperous and there are many fine 
country houses which may occasionally be seen 
from the highroad. We hasten on to Newburgh 
and from thence to Perth, where we stop for 
luncheon at the splendid Station Hotel. The day 
has so far been clear and cool, but during our stop 
there comes a sudden dash of summer rain and a 
sharp drop in temperature — not a very favorable 
augury of fine weather in the Highlands, whither 
we are bound. Perth does not detain us, for de- 
spite its old-time importance and antiquity, scarce 
a vestige remains of its once numerous monastery 
chapels, castles and noblemen's houses. Perhaps 
the iconoclastic spirit inspired by old John Knox, 
who preached in Perth, may be partly responsible 
for this, or it may be as a Scotch writer puts it: 
"The theory which seems to prevail in the Fair 
City is that the Acropolis of Athens would be bet- 
ter out of the way if grazing for a few goats could 
be got on the spot; and the room of the historic 

184 



SCOTT COUNTRY AND HEART OF HIGHLANDS 

buildings was always preferred to their company 
when any pretext could be found for demolishing 
them." The home ascribed to Scott's "Fair 
Maid," restored out of all knowledge, serves the 
plebian purpose of a bric-a-brac shop and there is 
nothing but common consent to connect it with the 
heroine of the novel. The fair maid indeed may 
have been but a figment of the great writer's im- 
agination, but the sturdy armorer certainly lived in 
Perth and became famous for the marvelous shirts 
of mail which he wrought. 

Our route lies due north from Perth, a broad 
and smooth highway as far as Blairgowrie, near 
which is another original of the "Tullyveolan" of 
"Waverley" — the second or third we have seen. 
Here we plunge into the Highland hills, following 
a narrow stone-strewn road which takes us through 
barren moors and over steep rough hills, on many 
of which patches of snow still linger, seemingly not 
very far away. Its presence is felt, too, for the air 
is uncomfortably chilly. The low-hung clouds seem 
to threaten more snow and we learn later that snow 
actually fell during the previous week. For thirty 
miles there is scarcely a human habitation save one 
or two little inns which have rather a forlorn 
look. The road grows steadily worse and the long 
"hairpin curves" of the road on the famous "Devil's 

185 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

Elbow" will test the climbing abilities of any 
motor. 

While we are struggling with the steep, stony 
slopes and sharp turns of the Devil's Elbow, a driv- 
ing rain begins and pursues us relentlessly for the 
rest of the day. The country would be dreary 
enough in the broad sunshine, but under present 
conditions it is positively depressing. The huge 
Invercauld Arms at Braemar is a welcome sight, 
though it proves none too comfortable; so cold and 
cheerless is the evening that every part of the hotel 
except the big assembly room, where a cheerful 
fire blazes in the ample grate, seems like a refrig- 
erator. The guests complain bitterly of the un- 
seasonable weather and one lady inquires of an- 
other, evidently a native: 

"What in the world do you do here in winter 
if it is like this in July?" 

"Do in winter? We sit and hug the fireplace 
and by springtime we are all just like kippered her- 
ring! 

Braemar has lost much of the popularity it en- 
joyed in Victoria's day, when as many as ten 
thousand people came to the town and vicinity 
during the Queen's residence at Balmoral, some ten 
miles away. She was fond of the Highlands and 
remained several weeks, but King Edward did not 

186 



SCOTT COUNTRY AND HEART OF HIGHLANDS 

share her liking for Balmoral and was an infre- 
quent visitor. The British have the summer-resort 
habit to a greater extent than any other people and 
Braemar still has considerable patronage during the 
season — from June to September. The surround- 
ings are quite picturesque; wooded hills, towering 
cliffs and dashing streams abound, but one who has 
seen America would hardly count the scenery re- 
markable. There is nothing to detain us in Brae- 
mar and the next morning finds us early on the 
road. The day promises fine, though of almost 
frosty coolness, and the roads in places are muddy 
enough to remind us of home. 

Braemar Castle, a quaint, towerlike structure 
near the town, attracts our attention and we find no 
difficulty in gaining entrance, for the family is 
away and the housekeeper is only too anxious to 
show visitors around in hopes of adding to her 
income. It proves of little interest, having recently 
been rebuilt into a summer lodge, the interior being 
that of an ordinary modern residence. The ex- 
terior, however, is very striking and the castle was 
of some consequence in the endless wars of the 
Highland clans. 

A few miles over a road overhung by trees and 
closely following the brawling Dee brings us in 
sight of Balmoral. Our first impression is of disap- 

187 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

pointment, since the castle seems but small com- 
pared with our preconceived ideas, formed, of 
course, from the many pictures we have seen. It 
has no traditions to attract us and as considerable 
formality is necessary to gain admission on stated 
days only, we do not make the attempt. The 
situation, directly on the river bank, is charming, 
and the park surrounding the castle is well-groomed. 
We hie us on to Ballater, a pretty, well-built vil- 
lage occupying a small plateau surrounded by 
towering hills. But a mile or two from the town 
is the house where Byron as a boy spent his va- 
cations with his mother, and there are many refer- 
ences in his poems to the mountains and lakes of 
the vicinity. Lochnagar, which inspired his well- 
known verses, is said to be the wildest and most 
imposing, though not the loftiest, of Scotch moun- 
tains. It is the predominating peak between Brae- 
mar and Ballater. For some miles on each side of 
Ballater the road runs through pine forests, which 
evidently yield much of the lumber supply in 
Britain, for sawmills are quite frequent. The trees 
are not large and they are not slaughtered after 
the wholesale manner of American lumbering. 

The Palace Hotel in Aberdeen is well-vouched- 
for officially — by the Royal Automobile Club, the 
Automobile Association and an "American Touring 

188 




A HIGHLAND LOCH 
From original painting" by the late John MacWhirter, R. A. 



SCOTT COUNTRY AND HEART OF HIGHLANDS 

Club" which is new to us — and we reckon, from 
the first mention in Baedeker, that it takes prece- 
dence of all others. It is conducted by the Great 
North of Scotland Railway and is quite excellent 
in its way, though not cheap or even moderate in 
rates. At dinner our inquisitive waiter soon learns 
that we are not new to Aberdeen; we have seen 
most of the sights, but we have to admit that we 
have missed the fish-market. 

"Then ye haven't seen the biggest sight in the 
old town,*' said he. "Seven hunder tons of fish 
are landed every day at the wharves and sold at 
auction. Get down early in the morning and ye'U 
aye have a fish story to tell, I'll warrant." 

And it proves an astonishing sight, to be sure. 
A great cement wharf a mile or more in length is 
rapidly being covered with finny tribes of all de- 
grees, sorted and laid in rows according to size. 
They range from small fish such as sole and bloater 
to huge monsters such as cod, haddock and turbot, 
some of which might weigh two or three hundred 
pounds. It would take a naturalist, or an experi- 
enced deep-sea fisherman, to name the endless va- 
rieties; it is a hopeless task for us to try to remem- 
ber the names of even a few of them. The harbor 
is filled with fishing craft waiting to unload their 
catch, and when one boat leaves the wharf its place 

189 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

is quickly occupied by another. And this is not 
all the fish-show of Aberdeen, for herring and 
mackerel are brought in at another dock. We re- 
turn to our hotel quite willing to concede our 
waiter-friend's claim that the tourist who does not 
see the fish-market misses, if not the "biggest," as 
he styled it, certainly the most interesting sight in 
Aberdeen. 

We linger a few hours about the town, which 
is one of the cleanest and most substantially built 
it has been our good fortune to see. It shows to 
best advantage on a sunny day after a rain, when 
its mica-sprinkled granite walls glitter in the sun, 
and its clean, granite-paved streets have an un- 
equalled attractiveness about them. Granite has 
much to do with Aberdeen's wealth and stateli- 
ness, for it is found in unlimited quantities near at 
hand and quarrying, cutting and polishing forms 
one of the greatest industries of the place. Civic 
pride is strong in Aberdeen and there are few cities 
that have greater justification for such a sentiment, 
either on account of material improvement or thrifty 
and intelligent citizens. 



190 



XI 

IN SUTHERLAND AND CAITHNESS 

It is a wild, thinly inhabited section — this 
strangely named Sutherland — lying a thousand 
miles nearer the midnight sun than does New York 
City; but its silver lochs, its clear, dashing streams 
and its unrivalled vistas of blue ocean and bold, 
rugged islands and highlands will reward the 
motorist who elects to brave its stony trails and 
forbiddingly steep hills. Despite its loneliness and 
remoteness, it is not without historic and romantic 
attractions and its sternly simple people widely scat- 
tered throughout its dreary wastes in bleak little 
villages or solitary shepherd cottages, are none the 
less interesting and pleasant to meet and know. 

The transient wayfarer can hardly conceive how 
it is possible for the natives to wrest a living from 
the barren hills and perhaps it does not come so 
much from the land as from the cold gray ocean 
that is everywhere only a little distance away. 
Fishing is the chief industry of the coast villages, 
while the isolated huts in the hills are usually the 
homes of shepherds. The population of Suther- 

191 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

land proper is sparse indeed and one will run miles 
and miles over the rough trails which serve as roads 
with rarely a glimpse of human habitation. No 
railway reaches the interior or the western coast and 
the venturesome motorist will often find himself 
amid surroundings where a break-down would sure- 
ly mean disaster — a hundred miles or more from 
effective assistance. The precipitous hills and stony 
roads afford conditions quite favorable to mishap, 
and for this reason the highways of Sutherland are 
not frequented by motor cars and probably never 
will be until a different state of affairs prevails. 
The Royal Automobile Club, however, has mapped 
a fairly practicable route, following roughly the 
coast line of the shire, and with this valuable assist- 
ance, we are told, a considerable number of mo- 
torists undertake the trip during the course of the 
summer. 

The name Sutherland — for the most northerly 
shire of a country which approaches the midnight 
sun — strikes one queerly; a Teutonic name for the 
most distinctly Celtic county in Scotland — both 
anomalies to puzzle the uninformed. But it was 
indeed the "land of the south" to the Norsemen 
who approached Scotland from the north, and 
landing on the shores of Caithness, they styled the 
bleak hills to the south as "Sudrland." There was 

192 



IN SUTHERLAND AND CAITHNESS 

not much to tempt them to the interior, the good 
harbors of Caithness and the produce of its fertile 
plains being the objective of these hardy "despots 
of the sea." The county of Caithness contains the 
greater part of the tillable land north of Inverness 
and this, with the extensive fisheries, supports a 
considerable population. The traveler coming from 
the south finds a pleasant relief in this wide fertile 
plain with its farmhouses and villages and its green 
fields dotted with sleek domestic animals. It was 
this prosperity that attracted the Norseman in olden 
days and he it was who gave the name to this 
county as well as to Sutherland — Caithness, from 
the "Kati," as the inhabitants styled themselves. 

We leave the pleasant city of Inverness on a gray 
misty morning upon — I was going to say — our 
"Highland tour." But Inverness itself is well be- 
yond the northern limit of the Highland region of 
Scott and the wayfaring stranger in Scotland to-day 
can hardly realize that the activities of Rob Roy 
were mostly within fifty miles of Glasgow. A hun- 
dred years ago the country north of the Great Glen 
was as remote from the center of life in Scotland 
as though a sea swept between. To-day we think 
of everything beyond Stirling or Dundee as the 
"Wild Scottish Highlands," and I may as well 

193 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

adopt this prevailing notion in the tale I have to 
tell 

For the first half hour the splendid road is ob- 
scured by a lowering fog which, to our delight, 
begins to break away just as we come to Cromarty 
Firth, which we follow for some dozen miles. The 
victorious sunlight reveals an entrancing scene; on 
the one hand the opalescent waters of the firth, 
with the low green hills beyond, and on the other 
the countryside is ablaze with the yellow broom. 
Dingwall, at the head of the firth, is a clean, thriv- 
ing town, quite at variance with our preconceived 
ideas of the wild Highlands; and a like revelation 
awaits us at Tain, with its splendid inn where we 
pause for luncheon on our return a few days later. 
It is built of rough gray stone and its internal ap- 
pointments as well as its service are well in keep- 
ing with its imposing exterior. But an excellent inn, 
seemingly out of all proportion to the needs of a 
town or the surrounding country, need surprise no 
one in Scotland — such, indeed, is the rule rather 
than the exception. 

At Bonar Bridge — the little town no doubt takes 
its name from the sturdy structure spanning Dor- 
noch Firth — we cross into Sutherland and for the 
next hundred miles we are seldom out of sight of 
the sea. An ideal day we have for such a journey; 

194 - 



IN SUTHERLAND AND CAITHNESS 

the air is crystal clear, cool and bracing. The un- 
sullied skies meet a still, shimmering sea on one 
hand and bend in a wide arch over gray-green hills 
on the other. Before our journey ends cloud effects 
add to the weird beauty of the scenes that greet 
our eyes — a play of light and color sweeping across 
the mottled sky and the quiet ocean. We are 
enchanted by one particularly glorious view as we 
speed along the edge of a cliff far above the ocean 
that frets and chafes beneath; a bank of heavy 
white clouds is shot through by the crimson rays 
of the declining sun; it seemingly rests on the sur- 
face of the still water and is reflected with startling 
brilliance in the lucent depths. Every mood of the 
skies finds a response in the ocean — gray, steely- 
blue, silver-white, crimson and gold, all prevail in 
turn — until, as we near our destination, the sky 
again is clear and the sea glows beneath a cloudless 
sunset. 

In a sheltered nook by the ocean, which here 
ripples at the foot of a bleak hill, sits Golspie, the 
first village of any note after crossing Dornoch Firth. 
It has little to entitle it to distinction besides its con- 
nection with Dunrobin Castle — the great Gothic 
pile that looms above it. Dunrobin is the seat of 
the Duke of Sutherland and Golspie is only the 
hamlet of retainers and tradesmen that usually at- 

195 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

taches itself to a great country seat. It is clean and 
attractive and its pleasant inn by the roadside at 
once catches our eye — for our luncheon time is 
already well past. And there are few country inns 
that can vie with the Sutherland Arms of Golspie, 
even in a land famous for excellent country inns. 
A low, rambling stone building mantled with ivy 
and climbing roses and surrounded by flowers and 
green sward, with an air of comfort and coziness 
all about it, mutely invites the wayfarer to enjoy 
its hospitality. The interior is equally attractive 
and there are evidences that the inn is a resort for 
the fisherman and hunter as well as for the tourist. 

It is of little consequence that luncheon time is 
two hours past; the Scottish inn keeps open house 
all day and the well-stocked kitchen and sideboard 
stand ready to serve the wayfarer whenever he 
arrives. The sideboard, with its roast beef, mutton 
and fowls, would of itself furnish a substantial re- 
past; and when this is supplemented by a salad, 
two or three vegetables, including the inevitable 
boiled potatoes, with a tart or pudding for dessert, 
one would have to be more particular than a hun- 
gry motorist to find fault. The landlady person- 
ally looks after our needs — which adds still more 
to the homelikeness of the inn — and as we take our 
leave we express our appreciation of the entertain- 

196 



IN SUTHERLAND AND CAITHNESS 

ment she has afforded us. She plucks a full-blown 
rose from the vine which clings to the gray walls 
and gives it to the lady member of our party, 
saying : 

"Would you believe that the roses bloom on this 
wall in December? Indeed, they do, for Golspie 
is so sheltered by the hills and the climate is so 
tempered by the ocean currents that we never have 
really severe weather." 

And this is nearly a thousand miles north of the 
latitude of New York City! 

The day is too far advanced to admit of a visit 
to Dunrobin Castle, despite the lure of its thou- 
sand years of eventful history. It stands on a com- 
manding eminence overlooking the sea, its pinnacled 
turrets and battlements sharply fretted against the 
sky. Its style savors of the French chateau, though 
there are enough old Scottish details to re- 
deem it from the domination of the foreign 
type, and, altogether, it is one of the state- 
liest of the homes of the Highland nobility. It has 
been in the unbroken possession of the present 
family for nearly a thousand years, having been 
originally built by Robert, Thane of Sutherland, in 
1 098. Its isolation no doubt saved it from the end- 
less sieges and consequent ruin that so many ancient 
strongholds underwent. 

197 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

From Golspie to Wick we are seldom out of 
sight of the ocean and there are many pleasing 
vistas from the clifflike hills which the finely engi- 
neered road ascends in long sweeping curves. The 
entire road from Inverness to Wick ranks with the 
best in Scotland, but beyond — that is another story. 
The villages along the way are inhabited by fisher- 
men, many of whom speak only Gaelic, and they 
are always civil towards the stranger. Especially 
do we notice this when we pass groups of children; 
they are always smiling and waving welcome in a 
manner that recalls in sharp contrast the sullen little 
hoodlums in the French and German towns. The 
country houses, though small and plain, are clean 
and solidly built of stone. Many well-bred domes- 
tic animals are to be seen, especially sheep. In this 
connection I recall a conversation I had with a 
young Montana ranchman whom I met on a train 
near Chicago. He had just sold his season's wool 
clip in that city and realized the highest price of 
the year — and he had imported his stock from 
Caithness, where he formerly lived. 

Wick is celebrated for its herring fisheries, upon 
which nearly the whole population of about twelve 
thousand is directly or indirectly dependent. It is 
the largest town north of Inverness and of some 
commercial importance. The artificial harbor was 

198 



IN SUTHERLAND AND CAITHNESS 

built at an immense cost and when the fisher fleet 
is in presents a forest of masts. On Mondays the 
boats depart for the fishing grounds, most of them 
remaining out for the week. Some of the boats are 
of considerable size and a single catch may comprise 
many tons of herrings. The unsavory work of 
cleaning and curing is done by women, who come 
from all parts of the country during the fishing 
season. 

Logically, Wick should mark the conclusion of 
our day's journey, which is of unusual length, 
and the huge Station Hotel is not uninviting, but 
we hasten farther, to fare — so far as accommoda- 
tions are concerned — very considerably worse. 
John O'Groats is our destination. We have long 
been fascinated by the odd name at the far north- 
ern extremity of the map of Scotland — a fascination 
increased by the recurrence of the name in Scotch 
song and story — and it pleases our fancy to pass 
the night at John O'Groats. A friendly officer 
assures us that we will find an excellent hotel at 
our goal and with visions of a well-ordered resort 
awaiting our arrival we soon cover the dozen or 
more miles of level though bumpy road between 
Wick and the Scotch Ultima Thule. The country 
is green and prosperous — no hint of the rocky hills 

199 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

and barren moors that have greeted us most of the 
day. 

A half mile from the tiny village of John 
O'Groats — a dozen or more low stone huts — we 
come to the hotel and our spirits sink as we look 
about us. A small two-story building with an 
octagonal tower faces the lonely sea and it is soon 
evident that we are the sole guests for the night. 
Two unattractive young women apparently consti- 
tute the entire force of the inn; they are manager- 
esses, cooks, waitresses, chambermaids and even 
"porter esses," if I may use such a word, for they 
proceed to remove our baggage and to carry it to 
our room. This is in the octagonal tower, fronting 
on the ocean, and is clean and orderly; but the 
dinner which our fair hostesses set forth precludes 
any danger of gormandizing, ravenously hungry 
though we happen to be. The dining-room occu- 
pies the first floor of the octagonal tower, which 
stands on the supposed site of the original house 
of John O'Groat, or John de Groote, the Dutch- 
man whose fame is commemorated by a tradition 
which one must hear as a matter of course if he 
visits the spot. 

John de Groote, a wealthy Hollander, is sup- 
posed to have established himself in Caithness in 
the time of James IV. to engage in commerce with 

200 




H 

O 

ft! 
O 



o 
w 

H 

o 



IN SUTHERLAND AND CAITHNESS 

the natives. As he was a person of importance, 
he brought with him a number of retainers, who 
held an annual feast in celebration of their arrival 
in Scotland. At this there were bickerings and 
heart-burnings as to who should occupy "the head 
of the table" — an honor that was made much of 
in those days. Wise old John de Groote pacified 
his jealous guests as best he could, assuring them 
that at their next gathering all should be equally 
honored and satisfied. He must have been a man 
of influence, for his enigmatical assurance seems to 
have been accepted by all. When the eight petty 
chieftains assembled again they beheld an octagonal 
house with eight doors and in it was a huge octago- 
nal table with seats at each side for the jealous 
clansmen and their retainers. As they must enter 
simultaneously and as no one could possibly be 
exalted above his fellows, the question of precedence 
could not arise. And so John O'Groat gave his 
name to eternal fame — but if this strange domicile 
ever existed, all trace of it has disappeared, and the 
question of precedence does not trouble our little 
party nearly so much as the indifferent dinner, which 
we make but a poor pretense at eating. 

One will hardly find a lonelier or more melan- 
choly scene — at least so it seems to us this evening 
— than the wide sweep of water confronting us 

201 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

when we look seaward from the sandy beach that 
slopes downward from the inn. Near at hand is 
a bold headland — the small rocky island of 
Stroma — while the dim outlines of the southernmost 
Orkneys rise a few miles away. No ship or sign 
of life is to be seen except two crab-fishers, who 
are rowing to the little landing-place. The beach 
is littered with thousands of dead crabs and masses 
of seaweed cling to the wreckage scattered along 
the water line. All is quiet and serene as the night- 
long twilight settles down, save for the occasional 
weird scream of some belated sea-bird. The sun 
does not set until after nine o'clock and on clear 
nights one may read print at midnight under the 
open skies. And it is with an odd feeling, when 
awakened by the rising sun streaming into our win- 
dows, that I find on looking at my watch that the 
hour of three is just past. 

At the risk of being set down as heathen by 
the natives, who observe Sunday even more strictly 
than their southern brethren, we are early on the 
road. Our breakfast, hastily prepared by our host- 
esses, gives us added incentive for severing relations 
with John O'Groats. We settle our modest score 
— our inn has the merit of cheapness, at least — 
act as our own porter — saving a shilling thereby 
— and soon sally forth on the fine road to Thurso. 



IN SUTHERLAND AND CAITHNESS 

The glorious morning soon effaces all unpleasant 
recollections. The road runs for miles in sight of 
the sea, which shows a gorgeous color effect in the 
changing light — deep indigo-blue, violet, amethyst, 
sapphire, all seem to predominate in turn, and the 
crisp breeze shakes the shimmering surface into mil- 
lions of jewellike ripples. In sheltered nooks under 
the beetling crags of the shore the water lies a sheet 
of dense lapis-lazuli blue such as one sees in pic- 
tures but seldom in nature. On the other hand 
are the green fields, which evidence an unexpected 
fertility in this far northern land. 

But the scene changes — almost suddenly. Leav- 
ing the low, green meadows of western Caithness, 
we plunge into the dark, barren hills of Sutherland 
— a country as lonely and forbidding as any to be 
found within the four seas that encircle Britain. 
The road — splendid for a dozen miles out of Thurso 
— degenerates into a rough, rock-strewn trail that 
winds among the hills, often with steep grades and 
sharp turns. At some points where the road 
branches a weather-worn stone gives an almost 
illegible direction and at others there is nothing to 
assist the puzzled traveler. At one of these it 
seems clear to us that the right-hand road must 
lead to Tongue, and with some misgiving we take 
it. There is absolutely no human being in sight — 

203 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

an inquiry is impossible. The road grows so bad 
that we can scarce distinguish it and at last we 
catch sight of a shepherd-cottage over the hill. 
Two elfish children on the hilltop view us with 
open-mouthed wonder, but in response to our in- 
quiries flee away to the house. The shepherd 
comes out, Bible in hand; he has no doubt been 
passing the morning in devotion at his home, since 
the kirk is too far away for him to attend. 

"The road to Tongue? Ah, an' it's a peety. 
Ye have ta'en the wrang turn and the road ye are 
on leads to — just nowhere." 

We thank him and carefully pilot our car back- 
ward for half a mile to find a practicable place 
to turn about. 

We have passed a few little hamlets since we 
left Thurso — Melvich, Strathy and Bettyhill — 
each made up of a few stone huts thatched with 
boughs or underbrush of some kind and though 
cleanly and decent, their appearance is poverty- 
stricken in the extreme. At Bettyhill we pass many 
people laboriously climbing the long hill to the 
kirk which stands bleakly on the summit — the en- 
tire population, old and young, appears to be going 
to the service. They are a civil, kindly folk, al- 
ways courteous and obliging in their response to our 
inquiries, though we think we can detect a latent 

204 



IN SUTHERLAND AND CAITHNESS 

disapproval of Sunday motoring — only our own 
guilty consciences, perhaps. They seem sober and 
staid, even the youngsters — no doubt only the 
Scotchman's traditional reverence for the Sabbath; 
though one of the best informed Scotch writers 
thinks this mood is often temperamental — a logical 
result of the stern surroundings that these people 
see every day of their lives. For Mr. T. F. Hen- 
derson in his "Scotland of Today" writes of the 
very country through which we are passing: 

"With all their dreariness there is something im- 
pressive in these long stretches of lonely moorland, 
something of the same feeling that comes over one, 
you fancy, in the Sahara. As a stranger you will 
probably see them in the summertime. There is 
then the endless weird light of the northern sun- 
rise and sunset, there is the charm of the sunlight; 
and nature using such magic effects is potent to 
infuse strange attractions into the wilderness itself. 
But the infinite gloom of the days of winter, the 
long periods of darkness, the rain-cloud and the 
storm-cloud sweeping at their will over the wild 
moorland without any mountain screen to break the 
storm! Can you wonder that men who spend their 
lives amid such scenes become gloomy and taciturn, 

and that sadness seems inseparable from such sur- 

205 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

roundings, and poverty inevitably appears twice as 
cruel and harsh here as elsewhere?" 

It is well past noon when the blue waters of 
the Kyle of Tongue flash through the rugged 
notches of the hills and a few furlongs along the 
shore bring us to the village of Tongue, with its 
hospitable inn. Though Tongue is fifty miles from 
the nearest railway station, enough lovers of the 
wild come here to make this pleasant, well-ordered 
inn a possibility. We find it very attractive inside; 
the July day is fresh and clear but chilly enough 
to make the fire burning in the diminutive grate in 
the drawing-room very acceptable to us who have 
never become really acclimated in Britain. But 
the same fire is evidently intended to be more orna- 
mental than useful, for the supply of coals is ex- 
ceedingly limited and they are fed into the grate 
in homeopathic doses. An Australian lady — who 
with her husband, we learn later, is on a honey- 
moon tour of Scotland — is even more sensitive to 
the chill than ourselves and ends the matter by 
dumping the contents of the scuttle on the fire and, 
like Oliver Twist, calling for more. Oliver's request 
possibly did not create greater consternation among 
his superiors than this demand dismayed our hos- 
tess, for coals might well be sold by troy instead 
of avoirdupois in Tongue. The supply must come 

206 



IN SUTHERLAND AND CAITHNESS 

by coast steamer from the English mines and the 
frequent handling and limited demand send the 
price skyward. The Australian lady's energetic 
act insures that the room will be habitable for the 
rest of the day — though it is easy to see that some 
of the natives think it heated to suffocation. 

At dinner our host, a hale, full-bearded Scotch- 
man, sits at the head of the table and carves for his 
guests in truly patriarchal style. The meal is a 
satisfying one, well-cooked and served; the linen 
is snowy white and the silver carefully polished. 
We find the hotel just as satisfactory throughout; 
the rooms are clean and well-ordered and the 
whole place has a homelike air. It is evidently a 
haven for fishermen during the summer season and 
these probably constitute the greater number of 
guests. The entrance hall is garnished with many 
trophies of rod and gun and, altogether, we may 
count Tongue Inn a unique and pleasant lodge in 
a lonely land. 

The following day — it is our own national holi- 
day — we strike southward through the Sutherland 
moors. The country is bleak and unattractive, 
though the road proves better than we expected. 
For several miles it closely follows the sedgy shores 
of Loch Loyal, a clear, shimmering sheet of water 
a mile in width, set in a depression of the moor- 

207 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

land hills. The Sutherland lochs have little in 
their surroundings to please the eye; their greatest 
charm is in the relief their bright, pellucid waters 
afford from the monotony of the brown moors. 
There are many of these lakes, ranging in size from 
little tarns to Loch Shin — some seventy miles in 
length. We pass several in course of our morning's 
run, and cross many clear, dashing streams, but 
there is little else to attract attention in the forty 
miles to Bonar Bridge. 

Lairg is the only village on the way, a group 
of cottages clustered about an immense hotel which 
is one of the noted Scotch resorts for fishermen. 
It is situated at the southern extremity of Loch 
Shin, where, strange to say, fishing is free — not a 
common state of affairs with the Scotch lochs. It is 
famous for its trout and salmon, though it is de- 
cidedly lacking in picturesqueness, one writer de- 
scribing it as "little better than a huge ditch." 

From Bonar Bridge southward we retrace the 
broad, level road that we followed out of Inverness, 
and from the opposite direction the green and thriv- 
ing countryside presents quite a new aspect. We 
have often remarked that it is seldom a hardship 
to retrace our way over a road through an inter- 
esting country. The different viewpoint is sure 
to reveal beauties that we have missed before. One 

208 









GLEN AFFRICK, NEAR INVERNESS 
From original painting- by the late John MacWhirter, R. A. 



IN SUTHERLAND AND CAITHNESS 

cannot complain that the country here lacks attrac- 
tions — there are many famous excursions to the 
lochs and glens and one of the most delightful is 
the ten-mile drive to Glen Affrick, which may be 
taken from Beauly. Mr. MacWhirter's picture 
shows a view of the dashing river — and I recall that 
the great artist, when showing me the original, re- 
marked that if one were asked to guess, he would 
hardly locate Glen Affrick in the Scotch Highlands, 
so strongly suggestive of the Dark Continent is the 
name. 



209 



XII 

DOWN THE GREAT GLEN 

That we had once — under the guidance of that 
patron saint of tourists, Thos. Cook — made the 
regulation boat trip down the Caledonian Lakes 
and Canal, in no wise lessens our eagerness to ex- 
plore the Great Glen by motor car. On a previous 
occasion we reluctantly gave up the run from Inver- 
ness to Oban because of stories of inconvenient and 
even dangerous ferries; but recent information from 
the Royal Automobile Club shows that while only 
a few attempt the journey, it is entirely practicable. 
The English motorist, accustomed to perfect roads 
and adequate ferry service, is likely to magnify 
deviations from the best conditions, which would 
be scarcely remarked upon by his American brother, 
to whom good highways are the exception rather 
than the rule. And so it chanced that the Great 
Glen acquired a rather unsavory reputation and only 
a few Americans or an occasional venturesome na- 
tive undertook the journey. At the present time, 
I understand, the road and service have been so 

210 



DOWN THE GREAT GLEN 

improved that no one need hesitate in essaying this 
delightful trip. 

Mr. George Eyre-Todd, a Scottish author, in a 
recently published book gives some descriptive and 
historical information concerning the country we are 
about to explore: 

"Glen More na h* Albyn, the Great Glen of 
Scotland, stretching from the Moray Firth south- 
westward to the Sound of Mull, cuts the Scottish 
Highlands in two. For grandeur and variety of 
scenery — mountain and glen, torrent and waterfall, 
inland lake and arm of the sea — it far surpasses 
the Rhine; and though the German river, with its 
castled crags and clustering mountain-towns, has 
been enriched by the thronged story of many cen- 
turies, its interest even in that respect is fully matched 
by the legends, superstitions and wild clan memories 
of this great lake valley of the north. For him 
who has the key to the interests of the region the 
long day's sail from Inverness to Oban unrolls a 
panorama of unbroken charm. 

"The Caledonian Canal, which links the lakes 
of this great glen, was a mighty engineering feat 
in its day. First surveyed by James Watt in 1 773, 
at the instance of the trustees of the forfeited estates, 
and finally planned by Telford in 1804, it was 
begun by Government for strategic purposes during 

211 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

the Napoleonic wars, and when finally opened in 
1847 had cost no more than a million and a quar- 
ter sterling. It has a uniform depth of eighteen feet, 
and ships of thirty-eight feet beam and a thousand 
tons burden can sail through it from one side of 
Scotland to the other. In these peaceful times, 
however, the canal is very little used. In autumn 
and spring the brown sails of fishing-boats pass 
through in flights, and twice a day in summer the 
palace-steamers of David Macbrayne sweep by be- 
tween the hills. But for the rest of the time the 
waters lap the lonely shores, the grey heron feeds 
at the burn mouths, and sunshine and rain come 
and go along the great mountainsides, exactly as 
they did in the days of Culloden or Inverlochy. 

"The canal at first has the country of Clan 
Mackintosh, of which Inverness may be considered 
the capital, on its left. At the same time, down to 
Fort Augustus, it has the Lovat country on the 
right. Glengarry, farther down, was the head- 
quarters of the Macdonnells. South of that lies the 
Cameron country, Lochaber and Lochiel. And 
below Fort Williams stretches the Macdonald coun- 
try. All these clans, in the '45, were disaffected to 
Government, and followed the rising of Prince 
Charles Edward." 

Inverness, with her bracing air and clear river, 
212 



DOWN THE GREAT GLEN 

her beautiful island park, well-stocked shops and 
wealth of romantic associations, will always tempt 
one to linger, come as often as he may. It is 
our fourth stop in the pleasant northern capital; 
we have tried the principal hotels and we remem- 
ber the Alexandra most favorably — though one 
traveler's experiences may not be of great value in 
such a matter. Individual tastes differ and a year 
or two may work a great change in an inn for 
better or worse. 

Within a dozen miles of Inverness one may find 
many historic spots. Few will overlook Culloden 
Moor, with its melancholy cairn and its memories 
of the final extinguishment of the aspirations of the 
Stuart line. Not less interesting in a different way 
is Cawdor Castle, the grim thirteenth-century pile 
linked to deathless fame in Shakespeare's "Mac- 
beth." There are drives galore to glens and re- 
sorts and you will not be permitted to forget the 
cemetery, in which every citizen of the town seems 
to take a lugubrious pride. Indeed, it is one of 
the most beautiful burial grounds in the Kingdom. 
Crowning a great hill which commands far-reaching 
views of valley and sea, it lacks nothing that art 
and loving care can lavish upon it. 

But Inverness, with all her charm, must not de- 
tain us longer. Our journey, following the course 

213 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

of the lakes to Oban, begins in the early morning; 
the distance is only one hundred and twenty miles, 
but they tell us we are sure to experience consid- 
erable delay at the ferries. It is a dull, misty morn- 
ing and the drifting fog half hides the rippling 
river which we follow some miles out of Inverness. 
By the time we reach the shores of Loch Ness, 
the sunlight begins to struggle through the mist 
which has enveloped everything and, to our delight, 
there is every promise of a glorious day. 

The lake averages a mile in width and for its 
entire length of nearly twenty-five miles is never 
more than a few score yards from the road. It 
is an undulating and sinuous road and one of the 
most dangerous in the Kingdom for reckless drivers. 
Here it turns a sharp, hidden corner; there it drops 
suddenly down a short, steep declivity into a dark 
little glade; at times it winds through trees that 
press too closely to allow vehicles to pass, and again 
it follows the edge of an abrupt cliff. Such a road 
cannot be traversed too carefully, but, fortunately, 
to anyone with an eye for the beauties of nature, 
there is no incentive to speed. Every mile of the lake 
presents new aspects — a dark, dull mirror or a glisten- 
ing sheet of silver, and again a smiling expanse of 
blue, mottled with reflections of fleecy white clouds. 
In one place it shows a strange effect of alternating 

214 




w 
H 
y A 

M 
u 
o 

H 

Eh 
w 
< 

o 

Eh 

< 

w 

p 

p 



DOWN THE GREAT GLEN 

bars of light and shade sweeping from shore to 
shore, a phenomenon which we are quite unable to 
understand. About midway an old castle rises 
above the dark waters which reflect it with all the 
fidelity of a mirror, for at this point the plummet 
shows a depth of seven hundred feet. For six hun- 
dred years Castle Urquhart has frowned above the 
lake and about it has gathered a long history of 
romantic sieges and defenses, fading away into 
myth and legend. Its sullen picturesqueness fur- 
nished a theme for the brush of Sir John Millais, 
who was a frequent visitor to the Great Glen and 
an ardent admirer of its scenery. 

As we pursue the lakeside road, we find our- 
selves contrasting our former trip by steamer, and 
we agree that the motor gives the best realization 
of the beauties of landscape and loch. There are 
points of vantage along the shore which afford views 
far surpassing any to be had from the dead level 
of the steamer deck; the endless variations of light 
and color playing over the still surface we did not 
see from the boat. There may be much of fancy 
in this; everything to the motor enthusiast seems 
finer and more enchanting when viewed from that 
queen of the road — the open car. 

The old chroniclers have it that St. Columba 
traversed die Great Glen in 565 A. D. and they 

215 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

declare that he beached his boat near Kilchimien 
on Loch Ness after having by his preaching and 
miracles converted the Pictish kings. This is the 
first record of the introduction of Christianity into 
the northern Highlands. 

Fort Augustus marks the southern extremity of 
Loch Ness and here are the great buildings of St. 
Benedict's Abbey and School, a famous Catholic 
college patronized by the sons of the gentry and 
nobility of that faith. The fort was built by the 
English a couple of centuries ago as a base of 
offense against the adherents of the Stuarts in the 
vicinity, and we may be sure that the fierce High- 
landers did not permit the garrison to suffer from 
inactivity. 

At this point the road swings across the canal 
and follows the western shores of Loch Oich and 
Loch Lochy. We miss the trees which border 
Loch Ness; here we pass at the foot of high, bar- 
ren hills over which, to the southward, rises Ben 
Nevis, the loftiest of Scotch mountains. There is 
not much of interest until we reach the vicinity of 
Fort William at the northern end of Loch Linnhe. 
As we approach the town we catch glimpses of 
the ivy-clad ruin of Inverlochy, one of the most 
ancient and romantic of northern Scottish castles. 
A portion of the structure is supposed to antedate 

216 



DOWN THE GREAT GLEN 

the eighth century and it was long the residence of 
a line of Pictish kings — kings, indeed, even though 
their subjects were but a handful of ill-clad maraud- 
ers. In any event, one of them, King Achaius, 
was of enough importance to negotiate a treaty 
with ambassadors sent by Charlemagne. It would 
be a long story to tell of the sieges and sallies, of 
the fierce combats and dark tragedies that took 
place within and about the walls of Inverlochy 
Castle; for in all its thousand years it saw little of 
peace or quiet until after the fight at Culloden; and 
such a story would accord well with the air of 
grim mystery that seems to hover over the sullen 
old ruin to-day. Standing on the verge of the still 
water, its massive round towers outlined against 
the rocky sides of Ben Nevis, whose snow-flecked 
summit looms high over it, it seems the very ideal 
of the home of chivalry, rude and barbarous though 
it may have been. 

Fort William, with its enormous hotels, shows 
the usual characteristics of a Scottish resort town 
— but the attractions which bring guests to fill 
such hotels are not apparent to us. More likely 
these are in the neighborhood rather than in the 
town itself. We pause here in an endeavor to get 
some authentic information concerning the ferry at 
Ballachulish, for our doubts have been considerably 

217 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

aroused about it. The office of the steamship com- 
pany of David Macbrayne, who controls nearly all 
the coastwise shipping in North Scotland, seems a 
likely place and thither we hie ourselves. The 
canny Scot in charge assures us that the ferry is 
exceedingly dangerous — that motors are transferred 
on a row-boat and some day there will be a dread- 
ful accident; he even darkly hints that something of 
the sort has already occurred. The safe and sane 
thing to do is to place our car aboard the next 
canal steamer, which will land us in Oban in the 
course of five or six hours — and it will cost us only 
three pounds plus transportation for ourselves. Shall 
he book us and our car for the boat? 

His eagerness to close the deal arouses our sus- 
picion — besides, we have done the Caledonian trip 
by boat before and are not at all partial to the 
proposed plan. It occurs to us that the proprietor 
of a nearby garage ought to be as well informed 
on this matter and more disinterested than Mr. 
Macbrayne's obsequious representative. 

"Cars go that way every little while," he says. 
"Not especially dangerous — never had an accident 
that I know of." 

Thus encouraged, we soon cover the dozen miles 
to the ferry. Our fine weather has vanished and a 
drizzling rain is falling at intervals. At the ferry 

218 



DOWN THE GREAT GLEN 

we learn that the crossing can be made only at 
high tide, which means four hours' wait amidst 
anything but pleasant surroundings. There are 
two vehicles ahead of us — a motor and a small 
covered wagon about which two miserably dirty 
and ragged little youngsters play, regardless of the 
steady rain. A dejected man and a spiritless 
woman accompany the wagon and soon respond to 
our friendly advances. They are selling linoleum 
made in Aberfeldy — traveling about the country in 
the wagon, stopping at cottages wherever a bit of 
their commodity is likely to be in demand. It is a 
pitiful story of poverty and privation, of days with- 
out sales enough to provide food, and of cold, wet 
nights by the roadside. If the end of the trip finds 
them even they are well content, but more often 
they are in debt to the makers of the linoleum. 

There are thousands of others, they tell us, gain- 
ing a precarious living, like themselves, though of 
course not all selling the same commodity. When 
they see our annoyance at the delay, they offer to 
yield us their turn in crossing, which we gladly ac- 
cept, for it affords an excuse for a gratuity, which 
we feel our chance acquaintances sorely need. 

In the meantime the tide is flowing swiftly 
through the narrow strait which connects Loch 
Leven with the wide estuary of Loch Linnhe and 

219 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

our boat approaches from the opposite side. Four 
men are rowing vigorously and as the small craft 
grates alongside the slippery granite pier, one would 
never choose it as a fit transport for a heavy motor. 
It is about twenty feet in length by ten or a dozen 
wide; two stout planks are placed crosswise and 
two more form a runway from the sloping landing, 
and, altogether, the outlook is rather discouraging 
to anyone so prejudiced in favor of the terra firma 
as ourselves. We are half tempted to retrace our 
journey to Fort William, but fortunately, the two 
young men who have preceded us in a large run- 
about furnish an object lesson that proves the trick 
not nearly so difficult as it looks. We follow suit 
in our turn and our car, by a little careful jockey- 
ing, is soon nicely balanced on the planks in the 
center of the boat. We express surprise that the 
added weight seems scarcely to affect the displace- 
ment of the craft. "O, ay, — she'll carry twelve 
ton," says one of the men who overhears us. So 
the two tons of the car is far from the limit, after 
all. It is a strong pull, well out of the direct line 
in crossing, for the tide is running like a mill-race 
and would sweep us many furlongs down the shore 
were not due allowance made by the rowers. The 
landing is easier than the embarking, and we are 
soon away at something more than the lawful pace 

220 




H 
O 
O 

Z 

H 

O 
H 
H 

a 

O 
A 

O 

P 

u 

«j 

H 
W 

H 



DOWN THEI GREAT GLEN 

for Benderloch Station, where another crossing 
must be made. 

We might have wished to take the right-hand 
road to Glencoe, only a few miles from Ballachulish 
— mournful Glencoe, with its memories of one of 
the darkest deeds that stain the none too spotless 
page of Scottish history. For here the bloody 
Cumberland, acting upon explicit orders from the 
English throne, sent a detachment of soldiers under 
the guise of friends seeking the hospitality of Clan 
Macdonald, which received them with open arms. 
The captain of the troop was an uncle of the young 
chieftain's wife, which served still farther to win 
the utmost confidence of the unsuspecting clansmen. 
For two weeks the guests awaited fit opportunity 
for their dastardly crime, when they murdered their 
host in the very act of providing for their entertain- 
ment and dealt death to all his clan and kin, re- 
gardless of age or sex. A few escaped to the hills, 
only to perish miserably from the rigors of the 
Scottish midwinter. Such is the sad tale of Glen- 
coe, where to-day a tall granite shaft commemorates 
the victims of the treacherous deed. 

A hundred tales might be told of the Great Glen 
— true tales — did our space permit. Here Bonnie 
Prince Charlie marshalled his forces and made his 
last stand in his struggle for the throne of his fathers. 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

In 1 745, at Gairlochy, near Fort William, the royal 
adventurer organized the nucleus of the army which 
was to capture Edinburgh and throw all the King- 
dom into consternation by its incursion into Eng- 
land. Here he planned a battle with General 
Cope, who avoided the encounter, a move which 
gave great impetus to the insurrection. Charles 
was in high feather and passed a night in revelry 
at Invergarry Castle with the Highland chieftains, 
who already imagined their leader on the highway 
to the British throne. Less than a year later the 
prince again sought Invergarry in his flight from 
Culloden's fatal field, but he found the once hos- 
pitable home of the chief of Glengarry empty and 
dismantled and so surrounded by enemies that, 
weary and despairing as he was, he still must 
hasten on. Two weeks later, after a* score of hair- 
breadth escapes, the royal fugitive left Scotland — 
as it proved, forever. 

We did not at the time reflect very deeply on 
these bits of historic lore; the rain was falling and 
the winding, slippery road required close attention. 
Much of the scenery was lost to us, but the gloomy 
evening was not without its charm. The lake 
gleamed fitfully through the drifting mists and the 
brown hills were draped with wavering cloud cur- 
tains. Right behind us rose the mighty form of 

22*2 



DOWN THE GREAT GLEN 

Ben Nevis, on whose summit flecks of snow still 
lingered. The wildness of the country was ac- 
centuated by the forbidding aspect of the weather, 
but we regretted it the less since our former trip 
had been under perfect conditions. 

At Benderloch Station we found a railway motor 
van and flat car awaiting us, in response to our 
telephone message from Ballachulish. Our motor 
was speedily loaded on the car, while we occupied 
seats in the van, an arrangement provided for 
motorists by the obliging railway officials. All this 
special service costs only fifteen or twenty shillings; 
but no doubt the railroad people established the 
rate to compete with the ferry across Loch Creran 
Inlet. They set us down safe and sound on the 
other side of the estuary, and we soon covered the 
few remaining miles to Oban, where we needed no 
one to direct us to the Station Hotel, for we learned 
on a former visit that it is one of the best-ordered 
inns in the North Country. 



223 



XIII 

ALONG THE WEST COAST 

The day following our arrival in Oban dawns 
clear and bright with that indescribable freshness 
that follows summer rain in the Highlands. We 
find ourselves loath to leave the pleasant little town, 
despite the fact that two former visits have some- 
what detracted from the novelty of the surround- 
ings. We could never weary of the quiet, land- 
locked harbor, with its shimmering white sails and 
ranges of green and purple hills beyond, or of the 
ivy-clad ruin of Dunolly that overhangs the waters 
when looking up the bay. The town ascends the 
steep hill in terraces and a climb to the summit is 
well rewarded by the splendid view. One also 
sees at close range the monstrous circular tower 
which dwarfs everything else in Oban and which 
one at first imagines must have some great historic 
significance. But the surmise that it was the work 
of ancient Romans in an effort to duplicate the 
Coliseum is dashed when we learn that Oban is 
scarcely a hundred years old and that "McCaig's 
Folly" was built after the foundation of the town. 






ALONG THE WEST COAST 

An eccentric native conceived the idea of erecting 
this strange structure "to give employment to his 
fellow- townsmen" and dissipated a good-sized 
fortune in the colossal gray-stone pile. Its enor- 
mous proportions can only be realized when one 
stands within the walls, which form an exact circle 
possibly two hundred feet in diameter and range 
from fifty to seventy-five feet in height. 

While the town itself is modern, the immediate 
vicinity of Oban does not lack for ancient land- 
marks. Dunstaffnage, with its traditions of Pictish 
kings, is antedated by few Scottish castles and Dun- 
oily is one of the most picturesque. Kilchurn and 
Duarte, though farther away, are easily accessible, 
and the former, on the tiny islet in Loch Awe, is 
one of the most beautiful of Scottish ruins. There 
are few drives that afford greater scenic charm than 
the circular trip past Loch Feochan and Loch Mel- 
fort, returning by Loch Awe, and there is no 
steamer trip in the Kingdom that excels in glorious 
scenery and historic interest the eighty-mile excur- 
sion to Staffa and Iona. With such attractions it 
is not strange that Oban is thronged with tourists 
during the short summer season. 

But we have "done" nearly everything in our 
two previous visits and have little excuse to linger. 
The only road out of the town, except the one by 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

which we came, drops southward through a country 
we have not yet explored. Brown and barren hills 
greet us at first, relieved here and there by the 
glitter of tiny lakes and by green dales with flocks 
of grazing sheep. A touch of brilliant color is 
given to the landscape by the great beds of blue 
and yellow flags, or fleur-de-lis, which cover the 
marshy spots along the road. For several miles we 
skirt the shores of Loch Feochan, a tidal lake 
whose blue-green waters are at their height, making 
a beautiful picture with the purple hills as a back- 
ground. 

The tiny village of Kilninver stands at the inlet 
of the loch and here the road re-enters the hills; 
there is a long steady climb up a steep grade ere 
the summit is reached and in places the narrow 
road skirts a sharp declivity, sloping away hundreds 
of feet to the valley beneath. We fortunately 
escape an unpleasant adventure here; just at the 
summit we find four men pushing an old-fashioned, 
high-wheeled car to the top of the grade. It lost 
its driving-chain, they tell us, and as the brake 
failed to work, narrowly missed dashing down the 
hill. Had it gone a rod farther such a catastrophe 
would surely have occurred; not very pleasant for 
us to contemplate, since at few places is there more 

226 



ALONG THE WEST COAST 

than enough room to pass a vehicle driven with 
care, let alone one running amuck! 

The descent is not so abrupt and a long steady 
coast brings us to the Pass of Melfort, where a 
swift mountain stream dashes between towering 
cliffs. We run alongside until we again emerge on 
the sea-shore, following the rugged coast of Loch 
Melfort for some miles. The road is rough in 
places and passes a sparsely populated country with 
here and there an isolated village, usually harsh and 
treeless. Kilmartin is the exception — a rather cozy- 
looking hamlet with a huge old church surrounded 
by fine trees. In Kilmartin Glen, near by, are 
numerous prehistoric sculptured stones often visited 
by antiquarians. Thence to Loch Gilphead the 
road is first-class; it crosses over the Crinan Canal, 
through which steamers bound for Oban and Glas- 
gow pass daily. Loch Gilphead is a straggling 
fishing-town, its docks littered with nets and the 
harbor crowded with small craft; its inn does not 
tempt us to pause, though luncheon hour is well 
past. 

For twenty miles or more we course along the 
wooded shores of Loch Fyne, another of the long 
narrow inlets piercing the west Scottish coast. It 
is a beautiful run ; trees overarch the road and partly 
conceal the gleaming lake, though at intervals we 

227 \ 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

come upon the shore with an unobstructed view of 
the rugged hills of the opposite side. Near the 
head of the lake is Inverary, the pleasant little capital 
of Argyleshire and as cleanly and well-ordered a 
village as one will find in Scotland. The Argyle 
Arms, seemingly much out of proportion to the 
village, proves a delightful place for our belated 
luncheon. No doubt the inn is necessary to ac- 
commodate the retinues of the distinguished visitors 
at Inverary Castle, which frequently include mem- 
bers of the royal family, with which the present 
duke is connected by marriage. The modern castle 
stands on an eminence overlooking town and loch 
and a smooth lawn studded with splendid trees 
slopes to the road. The design is Gothic in style, 
four-square, with pointed round towers at each 
corner, and the interior is well in keeping with the 
magnificence of the outside. 

The road we follow in leaving Inverary closely 
hugs the shores of Loch Fyne for some miles and 
but a short way out of the town passes beneath the 
ruin of Dunderawe Castle. Rounding the head of 
the loch, always keeping near the shore, we strike 
eastward through the range of giant hills that lie 
between Loch Fyne and Loch Lomond. It is a 
barren stretch of country; the road is rough and 
stone-strewn, with many trying grades — dangerous 

228 



ALONG THE WEST COAST 

in places; long strenuous climbs heat the motor and 
interminable winding descents burn the brakes. 
There is little to relieve the monotony of the wild 
moorlands save a mountain stream dashing far be* 
low the road or a tiny lake set in a hollow of the 
hills, but never a village or seldom an isolated cot- 
tage for miles. Near the summit is a rude seat with 
the inscription, "Rest and be thankful," erected 
long ago for the benefit of travelers who crossed 
the hills on foot. The poet Wordsworth made this 
journey and described it in one of his sonnets as 
"Doubling and doubling with laborious walk," 
ending in a grateful allusion to the resting place. 

We are glad to see the waters of Loch Lomond, 
glinting with the gold of the sunset, flash through 
the trees, for we know that the lake-shore road is 
good and one of the most beautiful in Scotland. 
Miles and miles it follows the edge of the island- 
dotted loch, which broadens rapidly as we course 
southward. The waters darken to a steel-blue 
mirror, but the hills beyond are still touched with 
the last rays of the sun — a glorious scene, not with- 
out the element of romance which adds to the 
pleasure one so often experiences when contem- 
plating Old Scotia's landscapes. It is only by grace 
of the long twilight that we are able to reach Glas- 
gow by lamp-lighting time. Measured in miles, the 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

day's run was not extraordinary, but much of the 
road was pretty strenuous and tire trouble has been 
above normal, so that the comfortable hotel of the 
metropolis does not come amiss. 

After a perfunctory round in Glasgow, our 
thoughts turn toward Ayr; even though we have 
already made two pilgrimages to Burnsland, the 
spell is unbroken and still would be though our 
two visits were two score. We will not follow the 
Kilmarnock route again, but for the sake of variety 
will go by Barrhead and Irvine on the sea. It proves 
a singularly uninteresting road; Barrhead is mean 
and squalid, the small villages are unattractive, and 
Irvine is a bleak, coal-shipping town. Irvine would 
be wholly commonplace had not the poet James 
Montgomery honored it by making it his birthplace 
and had not Bobby Burns struggled nearly a year 
within its confines to earn a livelihood as a flax- 
dresser. The ill luck that befell nearly all the poet's 
business ventures pursued him here, for his shop 
burned to the ground and Irvine lost her now dis- 
tinguished citizen — though she little knew it then, 
for Burns was only twenty-two. Perhaps it was a 
fortunate fire, after all, for had he prospered he 
might have become more of a business man than 
poet, and the world be infinitely poorer by the ex- 
change. A colossal statue recently erected com- 

230 



ALONG THE WEST COAST 

memorates his connection with Irvine and again re- 
minds one how Burns overshadows everything else 
in the Ayr country. 

The Station Hotel affords such a convenient and 
satisfactory stopping-place that we cut short our 
day's run after completing the forty miles from 
Glasgow. There is really not much in the town 
itself to detain the tourist; we wander down the 
main street and cross the "Twa Brigs;" from the 
beach we admire the broad bay and the bold rocky 
"Heads of Ayr" to the south. In the distance are 
the dim outlines of the Emerald Isle, seen only on 
the clearest days, and nearer at hand the Isles of 
Bute and Arran. The town is quite modern; there 
is considerable manufacturing and ship-building and 
many of the landmarks of the time of Burns have 
been obliterated. 

Fortunate indeed is it that the shrines at Alloway 
have not shared the same fate — a third visit to 
these simple memorials may seem superfluous, but 
we must confess to a longing to see them all again. 
The birthplace, Kirk Alloway, the monument, the 
Brig o* Doon and the museum, with its priceless 
relics of the poet — all have a perennial interest for 
the admirer of Burns and Scotland. The bare 
simple room where the poet was born has a wealth 
of sentiment that attaches to few such places, and 

231 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

I cannot forbear quoting Mr. George Eyre-Todd's 
little flight of fancy inspired by this same primitive 
apartment: 

"One can try," he writes, "to imagine the scene 
here on the afternoon of that wild winter day when 
'a blast o' Januar' win' ' was to blow 'Hansel in on 
Robin.' There would be the goodwife's spinning- 
wheel set back for the nonce in a dark corner; 
the leglins, or milking-stools — on which the bright- 
eyed boy was to sit a few years later — pushed un- 
der the deal table; the wooden platters and bowls 
from which the household ate, arranged in the wall 
rack, and the few delf dishes appearing in the half- 
open aumrie or cupboard; while from the rafters 
overhead hung hanks of yarn of the goodwife's spin- 
ning, a braxie ham, perhaps, and the leathern parts 
of the horses' harness. Then, for the actors in 
the humble scene, there was a shadowy figure and 
a faint voice in the deep-set corner bed; the inevi- 
table 'neighbour-woman' setting matters to rights 
about the wide fireplace in the open chimney; and 
William Burness himself, whip in hand, hurriedly 
getting into his heavy riding-coat to face the blast 
outside. 

"A glance at the face of the great eight-day 
clock, a whispered word and a moment's pause as 
he bends within the shadow of the bed, while the 



ALONG THE WEST COAST 

neighbour turns industriously to the fire, and then, 
with a pale face and some wildness in the eyes, 
the husband makes off, over the uneven floor of 
flags, and the door closes after him. In a minute 
or two the tramp of the hoefs of his galloping mare 
dies away in the distance, and the women are left, 
waiting. 

"Behind him as he turned from his door on that 
wild day, the farmer would hear the Doon thunder- 
ing down its glen, and the storm roaring through 
the woods about the ruin of Alloway Kirk, which 
his son's wild fancy was afterwards to make the 
scene of such unearthly revels. The old road to 
Ayr was narrower and more irregular, between its 
high hedges, than the present one; and every step 
of the way had some countryside memory belonging 
to it. Behind, by its well, where the road rose 
from the steep river-bank among the trees, stood 
the thorn 'where Mungo's mither hanged herselV 
In the park of Cambusdoon an ash tree still marks 
the cairn 'where hunters fand the murdered bairn." 
Farther on, in a cottage garden close by the road, 
is still to be seen that 'meikle stane, where drucken 
Chairlie brak's neck bane.' And on the far side 
of the Rozelle wood, a hundred yards to the left 
of the present road, was 'the ford where in the 
snaw the chapman smoor'd.' 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

"As William Burness reached the stream here a 
singular incident befell him. On the farther side, 
when he had crossed, he found an old woman sit- 
ting. The crone asked him to turn back and carry 
her over the river, which was much swollen by the 
rains. This, though he was in anxious haste, he 
paused and did, and then, dashing a third time 
through the torrent, sped off on his errand to Ayr. 
An hour later, on returning to his cottage with the 
desired attendant, he found to his surprise the gipsy 
crone seated by his own fireside. She remained in 
the house till the child was born, and then, it is 
said, taking the infant in her arms, uttered the pro- 
phecy which Burns has turned in his well-known 
lines : 

'He'll ha'e misfortunes great and sma,' 

But aye a heart abune them a', 

He'll be a credit till us a'; 

We'll a' be proud o' Robin.' 

"Shortly afterwards, as if to begin the fulfillment 
of the carline's prophecy, the storm, rising higher 
and higher, at length blew down a gable of the 
dwelling. No one was hurt, however, and the 
broken gable of a clay 'bigging' was not a thing 
beyond repair. 

"Such were the circumstances and such was the 
scene of the birth of the great peasant-poet. Much 

234 



ALONG THE WEST COAST 

change, no doubt, has taken place in the appearance 
both of the cottage and of the countryside since 
the twenty-fifth of January in the year 1759; but 
after all it is the same countryside, and the cottage 
is on the identical spot. Within these walls one 
pictures the poet in his childish years: 

"There, lonely by the ingle-cheek 
He sat, and eyed the spueing reek 
That filled wi' hoast-provoking smeek 

The auld clay biggin', 
And heard the restless rattons squeak 
Aboot the riggin'." 

And in this rude apartment the immortal 
scene of "The Cotter's Saturday Night" was 
enacted — and here it occurred to us to ask Mr. 
Dobson to give us his conception of the family group 
at worship — how well he has succeeded the accom- 
panying picture shows. We will be pardoned, I 
am sure, the repetition of the oft-quoted lines in 
connection with the artist's graphic representation of 
a scene already familiar the world over. 

"The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 

The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace, 
The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride; 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 
235 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare; 

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion 
glide, 
He wales a portion with judicious care, 
And, 'Let us worship God!' he says, with 

solemn air." 

In this same ingle nook it may be that Burns 
spent an occasional evening with Highland Mary 
— for Mary Campbell was for a short time employed 
as governess in the vicinity, and it is not unlikely 
that she was a frequent guest at the Burns cottage 
— a probability that has supplied Mr. Dobson with 
another of his happiest themes. Associations such 
as these are more than the scant array of facts given 
in the guide-books concerning the old cottage, and 
they give to the bare walls and rude furnishings 
an atmosphere of romance that that no familiarity 
can dispel. 

From Alloway our road quickly takes us to the 
seashore, which we are to follow for many miles. 
It is a glorious day, fresh and invigorating, the sky 
tranquil and clear, and the sea mottled with dun 
and purple mists which are rapidly breaking away 
and revealing a wide expanse of gently undulating 
water, beyond which, in the far distance, the stern 
outlines of Arran and Kintyre gradually emerge. 

It is a delightful run along the coast, which is 
236 



ALONG THE WEST COAST 

rich in associations and storied ruins. Athwart our 
first glimpse of the ocean stands the dilapidated bulk 
of Dunure Castle, an ancient stronghold of the Ken- 
nedys, who have stood at the head of the Ayr- 
shire aristocracy since 1466. Indeed, an old-time 
rhymester declared: 

'Twixt Wigton and the town of Ayr, 
Port-Patrick and the Cruives of Cree, 
No man may think for to bide there, 
Unless he court Saint Kennedie." 

But to-day the traditions of the blue-blooded 
aristocrats of Ayrshire are superseded by the fame 
of the peasant-poet and the simple cottage at Allo- 
way outranks all the castles of the Kennedys. We 
are again reminded of Burns at Kirkoswald, a tiny 
village a few miles farther on the road; here he 
spent his seventeenth summer and in the churchyard 
are the graves of the originals of Tam o' Shanter 
and Souter Johnnie. We pass in sight of Culzean 
Castle, a turreted and battlemented pile, standing 
on the verge of a mighty basaltic cliff beneath which 
the sea chafes incessantly. It is the seat of the 
Marquis of Ailsa — one of the Kennedys — built 
about a century ago, and the curious may visit it 
on Wednesdays. 

What Culzean lacks in antiquity is fully supplied 
by ruinous Turnberry, a scant five miles southward, 

237 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

associated as it is with the name of King Robert 
Bruce, who may possibly have been born within its 
walls. Here it was that Bruce, in response to what 
he thought a prearranged signal fire, made his cross- 
ing with a few followers from Arran to attempt 
the deliverance of his country. The tradition is 
that the fire was of supernatural origin and that it may 
still be seen from the shores of Arran on the anni- 
versary of the eventful night. This incident is intro- 
duced by Scott into "The Lord of the Isles:'* 

"Now ask you whence that wondrous light, 

Whose fairy glow beguiled their sight? — 

It ne'er was known — yet gray-hair'd eld 

A superstitious credence held, 

That never did a mortal hand 

Wake its broad glare on Carrick strand; 

Nay, and that on the self-same night 

When Bruce cross'd o'er, still gleamed the 

light. 
Yearly it gleams o'er mount and moor, 
And glittering wave and crimson'd shore — 
But whether beam celestial, lent 
By Heaven to aid the King's descent, 
Or fire hell-kindled from beneath, 
To lure him to defeat and death, 
Or were but some meteor strange, 
Of such as oft through midnight range, 
238 



ALONG THE WEST COAST 

Startling the traveller late and lone, 

I know not — and it ne'er was known." 

Turnberry is very ruinous now and must have 
been rude and comfortless at its best — another re- 
minder that the peasants of to-day are better housed 
and have more comforts and conveniences than kings 
and nobles enjoyed in the romantic times we are 
wont to dream about. 

Girvan is the first town of any size which we 
encounter on leaving Ayr, a quiet trading-place 
close on the shore. Just opposite is Ailsa Craig, 
a peculiar rocky island twelve miles away, though 
it looks much nearer. It seems very like Bass Rock, 
near Tantallon Castle on the east coast, though 
really it is higher and vaster, for it rises more than 
a thousand feet above the sea. It is the home of 
innumerable sea-birds which wheel in whimpering, 
screaming myriads about it. A solitary ruin indi- 
cates that it was once a human abode, though no 
authentic record remains concerning it. 

Southward from Girvan we traverse one of the 
most picturesque roads in all Scotland. It winds 
along the sea, which chafes upon huge boul- 
ders that at some remote period have tumbled from 
the stupendous overhanging cliffs. Among the 
scattered rocks are patches of shell-strewn sand on 
which the surf falls in silvery cascades as the tide 

239 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

comes rolling landward. Even on this almost wind- 
less day the scene is an impressive one and we 
can only imagine the stern grandeur of a storm 
hurling the waves against the mighty rocks which 
dot the coast-line everywhere. Soon the road be- 
gins to ascend and rises in sweeping curves to Ben- 
nane Head, a bold promontory commanding a wide 
prospect of the wild shore and sea, with the coast 
of Ireland some forty miles away — half hidden in 
the purple haze of distance. It is an inspiring view 
and one which we contemplate at our leisure — 
thanks to the motor car, which takes us to such 
points of vantage and patiently awaits our pleasure 
— different indeed from the transitory flash from the 
window of a railway car! A long downward glide 
takes us into the village of Ballantrae, whose rock- 
bound harbor is full of fishing-boats. Here the 
road turns inland some miles and passes through a 
rich agricultural section. In places apparently the 
whole population — men, women and children — are 
employed in digging potatoes, of which there is an 
enormous yield. Hay harvest is also in progress, 
often by primitive methods, though in the larger 
fields modern machinery is used. 

The road brings us again to the coast and a half 
dozen miles along the shore of Loch Ryan lands 
us in the streets of Stranraer. It is a modern-look- 

240 



ALONG THE WEOT COAST 

ing town and we stop at the King's Arms for lunch- 
eon, which proves very satisfactory. There is a 
daily service of well-appointed steamers from Stran- 
raer to Larne, a distance of some thirty miles, and 
much the shortest route to Ireland. The peninsula 
on which Stranraer and Port Patrick are situated is 
reputed to have the mildest and most salubrious cli- 
mate in Scotland and the latter place is gaining fame 
as a resort. There are many great country estates 
in the vicinity, notably Lochinch, the estate of the 
Earl of Stair. Near this is Castle Kennedy, which 
was burned in 1715, but the ruin is still of vast 
extent, with famous pleasure grounds surrounding 
it. The motorist may well employ a day in this lo- 
cality and will be comfortable enough at Stranraer. 

There is no nobler highway in Scotland than the 
broad, level and finely engineered road from Stran- 
raer through Castle Douglas to Dumfries. It passes 
through as beautiful and prosperous a country as 
we have seen anywhere — and we have seen much 
of Scotland, too. At Glenluce we make a short 
detour — though it proves hardly worth while — to 
see the mere fragment of the old abbey which the 
neighboring vicar is using as a chicken-roost. It is 
utterly neglected and we are free to climb over the 
mouldering walls, but there is no one to pilot us 
about and tell us the story of the abbey in its pros- 

241 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

perous days. And it did have prosperous days, 
for it was once of great extent and its gardens and 
orchards were reputed one of the sights of Scotland. 
Here James IV. and his queen came on one of 
their journeys some four centuries ago and the record 
of his donation of four shillings to the gardener still 
stands — a pretty slim royal tip, it seems to us now. 

Newton-Stewart is beautifully situated on the 
River Cree, whose banks we follow to Wigtown 
Bay, along which the broad white road sweeps in 
graceful curves. Many country houses crown the 
green, undulating hills and we catch occasional 
glimpses of them through the trees — for the parks 
are all well wooded. The excellent road through 
Gatehouse and Castle Douglas we cover so rapidly 
that the sun is still high when we reach Maxwelton. 
Dumfries, just across the River Nith, is our objective 
and it occurs to us that there is still time to correct 
a mistake we made on a previous tour — our failure 
to see Sweetheart Abbey. It is near the village of 
New Abbey some ten miles down the river, but on 
arriving we learn that the abbey is not shown after 
six o'clock. A visit to the custodian's home, how- 
ever, secures the key and we have sole possession 
of the ruin during the quiet twilight hour. 

There are many abbey ruins in Scotland — and 
we have seen the most famous — but it may be the 

242 ! 



ALONG THE WEST COAST 

hour of our visit, quite as much as the strange story 
of Sweetheart, that leaves it with the rosiest memory 
of them all. In its one-time importance as well as 
in the beauty of its scattered remnants, it is quite the 
peer of any of its rivals, but none of these have 
such an atmosphere of romantic history. For Sweet- 
heart stands forever as a monument of love and con- 
stancy, as intimated in its very name. John Baliol 
of Barnard Castle, Yorkshire, died in 1269, leaving 
his widow, Countess Devorgilla, to mourn his loss. 
And truly she did mourn it. There are many monu- 
ments to her sorrow — Baliol College, Oxford, 
Dundrennan Abbey and New Abbey — or Sweet- 
heart, as it is now known. Both of the latter are 
in Galloway, for Devorgilla was the daughter of 
the Lord of Galloway and a native of the province. 
Upon the death of her only sister she became sole 
heiress to the vast estates of her father and when 
she became Baliol's widow she was easily the rich- 
est subject in all Britain. She survived her husband 
for twenty-one years, during which time she was 
engaged principally in benevolent work, visiting 
many parts of the country. Her husband's heart, 
embalmed and encased in a silver casket, she con- 
stantly carried with her and at her death in 1289 
it was entombed upon her breast. She was buried 
in New Abbey, which she built as a memorial to 

243 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

Baliol and a resting place for her own body. When 
the abbey was dismantled her tomb was despoiled 
— but her epitaph still exists in one of the old 
chronicles : 

"In Devorgil a sybil sage doth dye as 
Mary contemplative, as Martha pious. 
To her, O deign, high King, rest to impart 
Whom this stone covers, with her husband's 
heart." 
Such is the story of the beautiful old abbey, 
whose roofless and windowless walls rise before us, 
the harsh outlines hidden by the drooping ivy and 
softened by the fading light. It is more ruinous 
and fragmentary than Melrose or Jedburgh, but 
enough remains to show its pristine artistic beauty 
and vast extent. The sculptures and other delicate 
architectural touches were doubtless due to work- 
men sent by the Vatican, since the Scotch had 
hardly attained such a degree of skill in 1270. It 
is wrought in red sandstone, which lent itself pe- 
culiarly well to the art of the carver and which, 
considering its fragile nature, has wonderfully with- 
stood the ravages of time and weather. An exten- 
sive restoration is in progress which will arrest further 
decay and insure that the fine old ruin will con- 
tinue to delight the visitor for years to come. 

There is no one to point out refectory and chapel 
244 



ALONG THE WEST COAST 

and other haunts of the ancient monks — but it is 
just as well. We know Sweetheart's story and 
that is enough, in the silence and solemnity of the 
gathering twilight, to make the hour we linger an 
enchanting one. And yet the feeling of sadness 
predominates, as we move softly about over the 
thick carpet of green sward — sadness that this splen- 
did memorial to a life of sacrifice and good works 
should have fallen into such decay that the very 
grave of the benevolent foundress should be effaced! 
The spell is broken when one of our party reminds 
us that it is growing late; that we may miss the 
dinner hour at our hotel, and we regretfully bid 
farewell to Sweetheart Abbey. We are glad that 
the royal burgh of Dumfries is at the end of the 
day's journey — an unusually long one for us — for 
we know that its Station Inn is one of the most 
comfortable in Scotland. 



245 



XIV 

ODD CORNERS OP LAKELAND 

Who could ever weary of English Lakeland? 
Who, though he had made a score of pilgrimages 
thither, could not find new beauties in this enchanted 
region? And so in our southward run we make a 
detour from Carlisle to Keswick by the way of 
Wigton, a new road to us, through a green and 
pleasant country. We soon find ourselves among 
the hills and vales of the ill-defined region which 
common consent designates as the Lake District. 
Rounding the slopes of Skiddaw — for we have a 
rather indirect route — we come upon a vantage 
point which affords a glorious view of Bassen- 
thwaite Water, glittering like a great gem in its set- 
ting of forest trees. We have seen the District 
many times, but never under better conditions than 
on this clear, shimmering July day. The green 
wooded vales lying between the bold, barren hills, 
with here a church-tower or country mansion and 
there a glint of tarn or river, all combine to make 
an entrancing scene which stretches clear and dis- 
tinct to the silvery horizon. We pause a short space 

246 



ODD CORNERS OP LAKELAND 

to admire it, then glide gently down the slope and 
along the meandering Derwent into Keswick town. 
It is the height of the summer season here and 
the place shows unmistakable marks of the tourist- 
thronged resort; the Hotel Keswick, where we stop 
for luncheon, is filled to overflowing. It is the 
most beautifully located of the many hotels in the 
town, standing in its own well-cared-for grounds, 
which are bedecked with flower-beds and shrub- 
bery. The Keswick is evidently a favorite with 
motorists, for we found many cars besides our own 
drawn up in front. It is a pleasant, well-conducted 
inn — everything strictly first-class from the English 
point of view — with all of which the wayfarer is 
required to pay prices to correspond. 

Keswick is anything but the retired village of the 
time of the poet Southey, whose home, Greta Hall, 
may be seen on an eminence overlooking the town. 
As the gateway by which a large proportion of 
tourists enter the Lake District, and as a resort 
where a considerable number of visitors — mostly 
English — come to spend their vacations, it is a 
lively place for some weeks in midsummer. There 
is not much of consequence in the town itself or in 
the immediate vicinity. It is the starting-point, how- 
ever, for an endless number of excursions, mostly by 
coach, for the railroad does not enter many parts 

247 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

of the District frequented by tourists. Even wagon- 
roads are not numerous and the enthusiast who 
wishes to thoroughly explore the nooks and corners 
must do much journeying on foot. 

We have little reason for choosing the coast road 
in our southern journey through Cumberland, except 
the very good one that we have never traversed it, 
while we are familiar with the splendid highway 
which follows the lakes to Lakeside and over which 
runs the great course of tourist travel. The roads 
are not comparable in interest, so greatly does the 
lake route excel, both in scenic beauty and in lit- 
erary and historic associations. Still, the dozen 
miles from Keswick to Cockermouth is a beautiful 
run, passing around the head of Derwentwater and 
following for its entire length — some four miles — 
the western shore of Bassenthwaite Water. The 
road winds through almost unbroken woodland and 
we catch only fugitive glimpses of the shimmering 
water between the thickly crowded trunks that flit 
between us and the lake. At intervals, however, 
we swing toward the shore and come into full view 
of the gleaming surface, beyond which stretches an 
array of wooded parks, surrounding an occasional 
country seat. Still beyond rise the stern outlines of 
Skiddaw, one of the ruggedest and loftiest of the 
lake country hills — though as a matter of fact, its 

248 



ODD CORNERS OF LAKELAND 

crest is but three thousand feet above the sea. It 
is a delightfully quiet road; we meet no other way- 
farers and aside from the subdued purr of the mo- 
tor, there is no sound save the wash of the wave- 
lets over the rocks or the rustle of the summer breeze 
through the trees. The north end of Bassenthwaite 
marks the limit of Lakeland for all except the cas- 
ual tourist, and here a snug little wayside inn, the 
Pheasant, affords a retreat for solitude-loving dis- 
ciples of Ike Walton. 

Cockermouth has little claim to distinction other 
than the fact that the poet Wordsworh was born 
here a little more than a century and a half ago. 
A native of whom we inquire points out the large 
square gray-stone house, now the residence of a lo- 
cal physician. The swift Derwent flows a few rods 
to the rear and the flower-garden runs down to the 
river's edge. The house stands near the highway 
and is no exception to the harsh, angular lines that 
characterize the village. It is in no sense a public 
show-place and we have no intention of disturbing 
the Sunday-afternoon quiet of the present occupants 
in an endeavor to see the interior. Wordsworth's 
connection with the house ceased at the death of 
his father, when the poet was but a child of four- 
teen. His young mother — a victim of consumption 
— had laid down life's burdens some six years ear- 

249 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

lier, and the orphan children were taken to the home 
of a relative at Kendal. 

Perhaps we are the more satisfied to pass the 
old house with a cursory glance because, if I must 
confess it, I was never able to arouse in myself 
any great enthusiasm over the poet Wordsworth or 
to read his writings except in a desultory way. He 
never had for me the human interest of Byron, 
Burns, Tennyson or many other great lights of Eng- 
lish literature I might name. We were quite will- 
ing to assume the role of intruder at Somersby; 
we made more than one unsuccessful effort before 
we saw Newstead, and three pilgrimages to Allo- 
way have not quenched our desire to see it again 
— but we are conscious of little anxiety to enter 
the doors of the big square house at Cockermouth. 
Perhaps we are not alone in such feeling, for pil- 
grims to the town are few and a well-known Eng- 
lish author who has written a delightful volume on 
the Lake District admits that he paid his first visit 
to Cockermouth "without once remembering that 
it was Wordsworth's birthplace!" His objective 
was the castle, a fine mediaeval pile which over- 
looks the vale of the Derwent. It is in fair preser- 
vation, having been inhabited until quite recently. 
Like so many Northland fortresses, it has its legend 
of Mary Stuart, who came here after landing at 

250 



ODD CORNERS OF LAKELAND 

Workington, a seaport a few miles distant. She had 
been led by the emissaries of Elizabeth to believe 
that an appeal to her "sister's" mercy would as- 
sure her a safe refuge in England, but she never 
drew a free breath in all the years she was to live 
after this act of sadly misplaced confidence. 

"No one," says the writer just referred to, 
"would wish to go beyond Cockermouth," and 
though we prove one exception to this rule, it is 
a fairly safe one for the average tourist, since 
rougher, steeper and less interesting roads are scarce 
in England. A fairly good highway runs to 
Whitehaven, a manufacturing port on the Irish Sea 
where, according to an English historian, "John 
Paul Jones, the notorious buccaneer, served his ap- 
prenticeship, and he successfully raided the place 
in 1 778, burning three vessels." Not many Ameri- 
cans have visited Whitehaven since, for it is in no 
sense a tourist town. We pursue its main street 
southward until it degenerates into a tortuous, hilly 
lane leading through the bleak Cumberland hills. 
It roughly follows the coast, though there are only 
occasional glimpses of the sea which to-day, half 
shrouded in a silvery haze, shimmers in the sub- 
dued sunlight. The road, with its sharp turns and 
steep grades, is as trying as any we have traversed 
in England; at times it runs between tall hedges on 

251 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

earthen ridges — an almost tunnellike effect, remind- 
ing us of Devon and Cornwall, to which the rough 
country is not dissimilar. Fortunately, we meet no 
vehicles — we see only one motor after leaving 
Whitehaven — but in the vicinity of the villages we 
keep a close look-out for the Sunday pedestrians 
who throng the road. Our siren keeps up a pretty 
steady scream and the natives stare in a manner indi- 
cating that a motor is an infrequent spectacle. We 
pass through several lone, cheerless-looking towns, 
devoid of any touch of color and wholly lacking the 
artistic coziness of the Midland villages. Egremont, 
Bootle, Ravenglass and Broughton are of this type 
and seemingly as ancient as the hills they nestle 
among. 

The ruin of a Norman castle towers above Egre- 
mont; shattered, bare and grim, it stands boldly 
against the evening sky. Yet it is not without its 
romance, a theme which inspired Wordsworth's 
"Horn of Egremont Castle." For tradition has it 
that in days of old there hung above the gate a 
bugle which would respond to the lips of none but 
the rightful lord. While the owner and his younger 
brother were on a crusade in the Holy Land, the 
latter plotted the death of the Lord of the Castle, 
bribing a band of villains to drown him in the 
Jordan. The rascals claim to have done their work 

252 




< 

H 

m 

a 
p 

o 

H 
W 
ffl 

<^ 

9 

O 



ODD CORNERS OF LAKELAND 

and Eustace, with some misgivings, hastens home 
and assumes the vacant title, though he discreetly 
avoids any attempt to wind the famous horn. Some 
time afterwards, while engaged in riotously cele- 
brating his accession, a blast of the dreaded horn 
tells him that his brother Hubert is not dead, and 
has come to claim his own. The usurper flees by 
the "postern gate,'* but years afterward he returns 
to be forgiven by Sir Hubert and to expiate his 
crime by entering a monastery. Wordsworth tells 
the story in a halting, mediocre way that shows how 
little his genius was adapted to such a theme. What 
a pity that the story of Egremont was not told by 
the Wizard with the dash of "Lochinvar" or the 
"Wild Huntsman." 

There is a fine abbey ruin in the vale of the 
Calder about a mile from the main road. Calder 
Abbey was founded in the twelfth century and was 
second only to Furness in importance in North- 
western England. The beautiful pointed arches 
supporting the central tower are almost intact and 
the cloisters and walls of the south transept still 
stand. Over them all the ivy runs riot, and above 
them sway the branches of the giant beeches that 
crowd about the ruin. It is a delightfully secluded 
nook and in the quiet of a summer evening one 
could hardly imagine a spot more in harmony with 

253 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

the spirit of monastic peace and retirement. Such 
is the atmosphere of romance that one does not 
care to ask the cold facts of the career of Calder 
Abbey, and, indeed, there is none to answer even if 
we should ask its story. 

You would never imagine that Ravenglass, with 
its single street bordered by unpretentious slate- 
roofed, whitewashed houses and its harbor, little 
more than a shifting sand-bar, has a history run- 
ning back to the Roman occupation, and that it 
once ranked in importance with Chester and Car- 
lisle. Archaeologists tell us that in Roman times 
acres of buildings clustered on the then ample har- 
bor, where a good-sized fleet of galleys constantly 
rode at anchor. Here came the ships of the civi- 
lized world to the greatest port of the North 
Country, bringing olives, anchovies, wines and other 
luxuries that the Romans had introduced into 
Britain, and in returning they carried away num- 
bers of the hapless natives to be sold as slaves or 
impressed into the armies. The harbor has evidently 
filled with silt to a great extent since that day, 
scarcely any spot being covered by water at low 
tide except the channel of the Esk. Many relics 
have been discovered at Ravenglass, and the older 
houses of the town are built largely from the ruins 
of the Roman city. Most remarkable of all are the 

254 



ODD CORNERS OF LAKELAND 

remains of a villa in an excellent state of preserva- 
tion, which a good authority pronounces practically 
the only Roman building in the Kingdom standing 
above ground save the fragments that have been re- 
vealed by excavation. 

Ravenglass has another unique distinction in the 
great breeding ground of gulls and terns which al- 
most adjoins the place. Here in early summer 
myriads of these birds repair to hatch their young, 
and the spectacle is said to be well worth seeing — 
and, in fact, does attract many visitors. The breed- 
ing season, however, was past at the time of our 
visit. An English writer, Canon Rawnsley of Car- 
lisle, gives a graphic account of a trip to the queer 
colony of sea-birds during their nesting time: 

"Suddenly the silence of the waste was broken 
by a marvellous sound, and a huge cloud of palpi- 
tating wings, that changed from black to white and 
hovered and trembled against the gray sea or the 
blue inland hills, swept by overhead. The black- 
headed gulls had heard of our approach and mightily 
disapproved of our tresspass upon their sand-blown 
solitude. 

"We sat down and the clamour died; the gulls 
had settled. Creeping warily to the crest of a great 
billow of sand, we peeped beyond. Below us lay 
a natural amphitheatre of grey-green grass that 

255 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

looked as if it were starred with white flowers in- 
numerable. We showed our heads and the flowers 
all took wing, and the air was filled again with 
sound and intricate maze of innumerable wings. 

"We approached, and walking with care found 
the ground cup-marked with little baskets or basket- 
bottoms roughly woven of tussock grass or sea- 
bent. Each casket contained from two to three 
magnificent jewels. These were the eggs we had 
come so far to see. There they lay — deep brown 
blotched with purple, light bronze marked with 
brown, pale green dashed with umber, white shad- 
ing into blue. All colours and all sizes; some as 
small as a pigeon's, others as large as a bantam's.. 
Three seemed to be the general complement. In 
one nest I found four. The nests were so close 
to one another that I counted twenty-six within a 
radius of ten yards; and what struck one most was 
the way in which, instead of seeking shelter, the 
birds had evidently planned to nest on every bit of 
rising ground from which swift outlook over the 
gull-nursery could be obtained. 

"Who shall describe the uproar and anger with 
which one was greeted as one stood in the midst 
of the nests? The black-headed gull swept at one 
with open beak, and one found oneself involuntarily 
shading one's face and protecting one's eyes as the 

256 



ODD CORNERS OF LAKELAND 

savage little sooty-brown heads swooped round one's 
head. But we were not the only foes they had had 
to battle with. The carrion crow had evidently 
been an intruder and a thief; and many an egg 
which was beginning to be hard set on, had been 
prey to the black robber's beak. One was being 
robbed as I stood there in the midst of the hubbub. 

"Back to the boat we went with a feeling that 
we owed large apologies to the whole sea-gull race 
for giving this colony such alarm, and causing such 
apparent disquietude of heart, and large thanks to 
the Lord of Muncaster for his ceaseless care of the 
wild sea-people whom each year he entertains upon 
his golden dunes." 

It is growing late as we leave Ravenglass and we 
wonder where we shall pass the night. There is 
no road across the rough country to our right and 
clearly we must follow the coast for many miles until 
we round the southern point of the hills. Then the 
wide sand marshes of the Duddon will force us to 
turn northward several miles until we come to a 
crossing which will enable us to continue our south- 
ward course. Here again a memory of Words- 
worth is awakened, for did he not celebrate this 
valley in his series of "Sonnets to the Duddon?" 
There is no stopping-place at Bootle or Millom or 
Broughton, unless it be road-houses of doubtful 

257 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

character and we hasten over the rough narrow 
roads as swiftly as steep grades and numerous 
pedestrians will permit. The road for some miles 
en either side of Broughton is little more than a 
stony lane which pitches up and down some fright- 
ful hills. It is truly strenuous motoring and our run 
has already been longer than is our wont. The 
thought of a comfortable inn appeals strongly indeed 
— we study the map a moment to find to our cer- 
tain knowledge that nothing of such description is 
nearer than Furness Abbey, still a good many miles 
to the south. But the recollection of the splendid 
ruin is, for the time being, quite overshadowed by 
our memory of the excellent hotel, which I must 
confess exerts much the greater attraction. The 
country beyond Broughton has little of interest, but 
the road gradually improves until it becomes a 
broad, well-surfaced highway which enables us to 
make up for lost time. Shortly after sunset we 
enter the well-kept park surrounding the abbey and 
hotel. We have come many miles "out of our 
way," to be sure, for we are already decided on a 
northward turn for a last glimpse of Lakeland to- 
morrow — but, after all, we are not seeking shortest 
routes. Indeed, from our point of view, we can 

scarcely go "out of the way'* in rural Britain; some 

258 




o 

o 
ti 

ffl 

w 

H 

fc 
O 

M 

H 

2ffi 

J? 

3 H 

<j 
o 

fc. 
tf 

H 
H 

m 



ODD CORNERS OF LAKELAND 

of our rarest discoveries have been made unex- 
pectedly when deviating from main-traveled routes. 

On the following day we pursue familiar roads. 
Passing through Dalton and Ulverston, we ascend 
the vale of the Leven to Newby Bridge at the 
southern extremity of Windermere. We cannot 
resist the temptation to take the Lakeside road to 
Windermere town, though it carries us several miles 
farther north. It is surely one of the loveliest of 
English roads, and we now traverse it the third 
time — once in the sunlight of a perfect afternoon, 
once it was gray and showery, and to-day the 
shadows of the great hills darken the mirrorlike sur- 
face, for it is yet early morning. The water is of 
almost inky blackness, but on the far side it sparkles 
in the sunlight and the snowy sails of several small 
craft lend a pleasing relief to its somber hues. The 
road winds among the trees that skirt the shore and 
in places we glide beneath the overarching boughs. 
At times the lake glimmers through the closely 
standing trunks, and again we come into the open 
where our vision has full sweep over the gleaming 
expanse of dark water. We follow the Lakeside 
road for six miles until we reach the outskirts of the 
village of Bowness; here a turn to the right leads 
up a sharp hill and we are soon on the moorland 
road to Kendal. It shows on our map as a 

259 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

"second-class" road and, indeed, this description 
was deserved two years before. It is a pleasant 
surprise to find it smoothly re-surfaced — an excel- 
lent highway now, though in its windings across the 
fells it carries us over some steep grades. On either 
hand lies a barren and hilly country, which does 
not improve until we enter the green valley in 
which the town is situated. It is a charming place, 
depending now for its prosperity on the stretch of 
fertile country which surrounds it. Once it had 
numerous factories, but changing conditions have 
eradicated most of them excepting the woolen mills, 
which still operate on a considerable scale. The 
ancient castle — now a scanty ruin — looms high 
over the town: "a stern castle, mouldering on the 
brow of a green hill," as Wordsworth, who lived 
many years in the vicinity, describes it. It might 
furnish material for many a romance; here was born 
Catherine Parr, the queen who was fortunate 
enough to survive that royal Bluebeard, Henry VIII. 
It escaped the usual epitaph, "Destroyed by Crom- 
well," since it had long been in ruin at the time of 
the Commonwealth. But Cromwell, or his follow- 
ers, must have been in evidence in Kendal, for in 
the church is the helmet of Major Robert Philipson 
— Robin the Devil — who gained fame by riding 
his horse into this selfsame church during services 

260 




w 

o 
P 

w 

o 

w 

GO 
M 

Q 
H 



ODD CORNERS OF LAKELAND 

in search of a Cromwellian officer upon whom he 
sought to do summary vengeance. The exploits of 
this bellicose major furnish a groundwork for Scott's 
"Rokeby." The church is justly the pride of Ken- 
dal, being one of the largest in England and of 
quite unique architecture. It has no fewer than five 
aisles running parallel with each other and the great 
breadth of the building, together with its low square 
tower, gives it a squat appearance, though this is re- 
deemed to some extent by its unique design. A 
good part of the building is more than seven 
hundred years old, though considerable additions 
were made in the fifteenth century. In the tower 
is a chime of bells celebrated throughout the North 
Country for their melody, which is greatly enhanced 
by the echoes from the surrounding hills. 

Kendal serves as the southernmost gateway of the 
Lake District, the railway passing through the town 
to Windermere, and there is also a regular coach- 
ing service to the same place. When we resume 
our journey over the highway to the south we are 
well out of the confines of English Lakeland and I 
may as well close this chapter on the lesser known 
corners of this famous region. 



261 



XV 

WE DISCOVER DENBIGH 

Night finds us in Chester, now so familiar as to 
become almost commonplace, and we stop at the 
Grosvenor, for we know it too well to take chances 
elsewhere. There has been little of consequence on 
the highway we followed from Kendal, which we 
left in the early forenoon, if we except the fine old 
city of Lancaster, where we stopped for lunch. 
And even Lancaster is so dominated by modern 
manufactories that it is hard to realize that its history 
runs back to Roman times. It has but few land- 
marks left; the castle, with the exception of the 
keep tower, is modern and used as a county jail — 
or gaol, as the English have it. St. Mary's Church, 
a magnificent fifteenth-century structure, crowns the 
summit of the hill overlooking the city and from 
which a wide scope of country on one hand and the 
Irish Sea and Isle of Man on the other may be seen 
on clear days. 

Preston, Wigan and Warrington are manufac- 
turing towns stretching along the road at intervals 
of fifteen or twenty miles and ranging in population 

262 



WE DISCOVER DENBIGH 

around one hundred thousand each. Their out- 
skirts merge into villages and for many miles it was 
almost as if we traveled through a continuous city. 
The houses crowd closely on the street, which was 
often thronged with children, making slow and 
careful driving imperative. The pavements in the 
larger towns are excellent and the streets of the vil- 
lages free from filth — a marked contrast to what we 
saw on the Continent. Shortly after leaving War- 
rington we crossed the Manchester Ship Canal, by 
which ocean-going vessels are able to reach that 
city. From thence to Chester our run was through 
a pretty rural section, over an excellent road. 

Chester is crowded even more than usual. An 
historical pageant is to take place during the week 
and many sightseers are already on the ground. 
Only our previous acquaintance enables us to se- 
cure rooms at the Grosvenor, since would-be guests 
are hourly being turned away. Under such condi- 
tions we do not care to linger and after a saunter 
along the "rows" in the morning we are ready for 
the road. We have not decided on our route — 
perhaps we may as well return to London and pre- 
pare for the trip to Land's End which we have in 
mind. A glance at the map shows Conway within 
easy distance. Few places have exerted so great 
a fascination for us as the little Welsh town — yes, 

263 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

we will sojourn a day or two in Conway and we 
may as well go by a route new to us. We will take 
the road through Mold and Denbigh, though it 
never occurs to us that either of them deserves more 
than a passing glance. 

The first glimpse of Denbigh arouses our curi- 
osity. A vast ivy-mantled ruin surmounts a steep 
hill rising abruptly from the vale of the Clwyd, 
while the gray monotone of the slate roofs and stone 
walls of the old town covers the slopes. The noble 
bulk and tall spire of the church occupies the fore- 
ground and, indeed, as Dr. Samuel Johnson wrote 
in 1 774, "Denbigh is not a mean town," if one may 
judge by its aspect from a little distance. The first 
view awakens a lively desire for closer acquaintance 
and soon we are ascending the long steep street 
that leads to the castle — for the castle is naturally 
the first objective of the newcomer in Denbigh. 
The hill rises five hundred feet above the level of 
the plain and the ascent, despite its many windings, 
is steep enough to change the merry hum of our 
motor to a low determined growl ere we pause be- 
fore the grim old gateway in the fragment of the 
keep tower. 

We are fortunate in finding an intelligent custo- 
dian in charge, who hastens to inform us that he 
himself is an American citizen, having been natural- 

264 



WE DISCOVER DENBIGH 

ized during a sojourn in the States. We have 
reason to be proud of our fellow-countryman, for 
we have found few of his brethren who could rival 
him in thorough knowledge of their charges or who 
were able to tell their stories more entertainingly. 

There is little left of Denbigh Castle save the 
remnant of the keep and the outlines of the founda- 
tion walls, but these are quite enough to indicate 
its old-time defensive strength. Of all the scores 
of British castles we have seen, scarcely another, it 
seems to us, could have equalled the grim strength 
of Denbigh in its palmy days. The keep consisted 
of seven great towers, six of them surrounding a 
central one, known as the Hall of Judgment. And, 
indeed, dreadful judgments must have emanated 
from this gloomy apartment — gloomy in its best 
days, being almost windowless — for beneath the 
keep the dungeon is still intact to tell plainer than 
words the fate of the captives of Denbigh Castle. 
"Man's inhumanity to man" was near its climax in 
the mind of the designer who planned this tomblike 
vault, hewn in the solid rock, shut in by a single 
iron-bound trap-door and without communication 
with the outer air save a small passageway some 
two inches square and several feet in length which 
opened in the outside wall. Only by standing 
closely at the tiny aperture was it possible for the 

265 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

inmates to breathe freely, and when there were more 
than one in the dungeon the unfortunate prisoners 
took turns at the breathing-hole, as it was styled. 

The castle was originally of vast extent, its outer 
wall, which once enclosed the village as well, ex- 
ceeding one and one-half miles in length; and there 
was a network of underground passageways and 
apartments. The complete ruin of the structure is 
due to havoc wrought with gunpowder after the 
Restoration. Huge fragments of masonry still lie 
as they fell; others, crumbled to dust, afford footing 
for shrubs and even small trees, while yellow and 
purple wall-flowers and tangled masses of ivy run 
riot everywhere. The great entrance gateway is 
intact and, strange to say, a statue of Henry de 
Lacy, the founder, stands in a niche above the 
doors, having survived the vicissitudes which laid 
low the mighty walls and stately towers. This gate 
was flanked by two immense watchtowers, but only 
a small part of the western one remains. The rem- 
nants, as an English writer has said, "are vast and 
awful; seldom are such walls seen; the huge frag- 
ments that remain of the exterior shell impress the 
mind vividly with their stupendous strength." 
Several underground passages have been discovered 
and one of these led beneath the walls into the 
town, evidently intended as an avenue of escape 

266 



WE DISCOVER DENBIGH 

for the garrison in last extremity. A number of 
human skeletons were also unearthed, but as the 
castle underwent many sieges, these were possibly 
the remains of defenders who died within the walls. 

As we wander about the ruins, our guide has 
something to tell us of every nook. We hear the 
sad story of the deep well, now dry, beneath the 
Goblin Tower, into which the only son of the 
founder fell to his death, a tragedy that transferred 
the succession of the lordship to another line; and 
from the broken battlements there is much to be 
seen in the green valley below. Yonder was a 
British camp of prehistoric days, indicated by the 
earthen mounds still remaining; near by a Roman 
camp of more recent time, though it was little less 
than two thousand years ago that the legions of the 
seven-hilled city marched on yonder plain. Through 
the notch in the distant hills came the Cromwellians 
to lay siege to Denbigh Castle, the last fortress in 
the Kingdom to hold out for King Charles. There 
was no end of fierce fighting, sallies and assaults for 
several months in the summer of 1 646 — and a great 
exchange of courtesies between General Mytton of 
the Parliamentary Army and Sir William Salisbury, 
commanding the castle, who were oldtime friends. 
There were truces for burial of the dead of both 
armies, often with military honors on part of the op- 

267 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

posing side, but all of this did not mitigate the 
bitterness with which the contest was waged. The 
straits of the garrison became terrible indeed, and 
at last the implacable old governor agreed to de- 
liver the castle to his enemies provided he be given 
the honors of war and that the consent of the king 
be secured. His messenger was given safe conduct 
to visit Charles and the monarch readily absolved 
his faithful retainer from farther efforts in his behalf. 
Tradition has it that when the Parliamentarian 
troops were drawn up within the castle to receive 
the surrender, the commander gently reminded 
Colonel Salisbury that the key had not yet been 
delivered. The bellicose old Cavalier, standing on 
the Goblin Tower, flung the key to his conqueror 
with the bitter remark, "The world is yours. Make 
it your dunghill." 

But perhaps I have anticipated a little in relating 
the last great incident in the history of Denbigh 
Castle first of all, but its interest entitles it to prece- 
dence, though the earlier story of the castle is worth 
telling briefly. 

There are indications that this commanding site 
was fortified long before the Normans reared the 
walls now standing, but if so, there are few authen- 
tic details now to be learned. The present castle 
was built by Henry de Lacy during the latter half 

268 



WE DISCOVER DENBIGH 

of the thirteenth century and was one of the many 
fortresses erected in Wales during the reign of 
Edward I. in his systematic attempt to subdue the 
native chieftains. Of its vicissitudes during the end- 
less wars between the English and Welsh for nearly 
a century after its foundation, it would not be worth 
while to write, nor would a list of the various nobles 
who succeeded to its command be of consequence. 
Its most notable proprietor and the one who left 
the greatest impress of his ownership was the famous 
Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, whom we know 
best from his connection with Kenilworth. Dudley 
bought the castle from his patroness, Queen Eliza- 
beth — it had long before her reign reverted to the 
crown — though there is no record that he ever paid 
even the first installment of purchase money, and 
after his death the Queen re-annexed the property 
on the ground that it had never been paid for. But 
even if he did not pay for his acquisition, Dudley 
found many ways to give evidence of his ownership 
to the people of Denbigh and the surrounding 
country. His lordship was one of oppression and 
rapine and he did not halt at any crime to advance 
his ends and to extort money for his projects. His 
influence was such that two of the young Salisburys, 
sons of one of the noblest families in the country, 
were hanged at Shrewsbury for pulling down one 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

of his lordship's illegal fences! This was only 
typical of his high-handed proceedings, which were 
cut short by his sudden death, said to have been 
caused by drinking poison which he had prepared 
for another! During his ownership he repaired and 
added to the castle and began a church on a vast 
scale — still standing incomplete in ruin. This he 
hoped would supersede the cathedral at St. Asaph 
and the only recourse of the good people of that 
town against Leicester's ambitious schemes was 
prayer, which doubtless from their point of view 
seemed wonderfully efficacious when death snatched 
their oppressor away. 

There was little of importance in the castle's 
history during the half century between Leicester's 
death and the Civil War. Charles I. came here 
after Rowton Moor and then it was that the bold 
governor gave his oath not to surrender without the 
King's command. General Mytton, the victor of 
Rowton, closely pursued the defeated Royalists and 
followed Charles to Denbigh, but the monarch, on 
learning of his enemy's approach, escaped to Scot- 
land, only to be captured a little later. Of the long 
siege we have already told. 

The fate of Denbigh Castle was peculiar in that 
it was not "destroyed by Cromwell," as were most 
of the ruined fortresses which it was our fortune to 

270 



WE DISCOVER DENBIGH 

see in England. It was held by the Cromwellian 
army until the Restoration, when a special edict 
was framed by the Royal Parliament ordering that 
it be blown up with gunpowder. That the work 
was well done is mutely testified by the ruins that 
surround us to-day. For years the fallen walls 
served the natives as a stone quarry, but of late 
Denbigh has been seized with the zeal for preser- 
vation of things historic now so prevalent in Britain, 
and the castle is well looked after; decay has been 
arrested and the grounds are now a public park. A 
velvety lawn carpets the enclosure and a bowling 
green occupies the court which once echoed to the 
tread of armed men and war horses. 

But we note little evidence of all the stirring 
scenes enacted on this historic spot. It is an ideal 
summer day; there is scarce a breath of air to rustle 
the masses of ivy that cling to the walls; save for 
the birds that sing in the trees and shrubs, quiet 
reigns; there are no sightseers but ourselves. From 
the old keep tower a glorious view greets our eyes. 
All around lies the green vale of the Clwyd stretch- 
ing away to blue hills; it is dotted here and there 
with red-roofed cottages whose walls gleam white 
as alabaster in the noonday sun. The monotony 
is further relieved by groups of stately trees which 
mark the surrounding country seats and by an oc- 

271 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

casional glint of the lazy river. Our guide points 
out the near-by village of Tremeirchion, whose name 
goes back to Roman times — signifying that there 
was a cavalry station near the spot. A gray house 
surrounded by trees is Brynbella, so named by Dr. 
Samuel Johnson, who frequently visited the owner, 
Mrs. Piozzi, during his residence near Denbigh. 
Felicia Hemans lived for some time in a cottage 
to be seen a little farther down the vale and there 
are traces of the beauties of the Clwyd in her poems. 
On the outskirts of the town are the ruins of an 
abbey founded in the reign of Henry III. and with- 
in a mile is Whitchurch, which has many curious 
features, among them a stained-glass window which 
was buried during the Civil War to save it from 
the image-smashers. 

Nor should we forget the little white cottage 
where Dr. Samuel Johnson lived while compiling 
his famous dictionary. He was attracted here by 
the rural quiet of the spot and for several years 
pursued his colossal task. The house stands in the 
edge of a fine grove and is shut in by a thickly set 
hawthorn hedge. A monumental shaft in the 
neighborhood commemorates the association of the 
great lexicographer with the spot. 

But Denbigh has a more recent distinction that 
will appeal to every schoolboy of the English-speak- 

272 




£ 






Q 
W 
N 

H 
< 



z 

< 



Z 

w 

ad 
o 
S3 
z 
w 

Q 

ad 

u 

D 
£ 
U 
cw 
>* 



WE DISCOVER DENBIGH 

ing world, for here, within a stone's throw of the 
castle gate, was born Henry M. Stanley, the great 
explorer. It was not by this name, however, that 
he was known when as a boy of five he was placed 
in the workhouse at St. Asaph by his mother's 
brothers, for it was little John Henry Rowlands who 
was so cruelly treated by the master. Stanley him- 
self tells in his autobiography the story of this Welsh 
Dotheboys Hall and also of his escape from the 
institution after having given a severe thrashing to 
his oppressor, who was no match for the sturdy 
youth of sixteen. After many vicissitudes he reached 
New Orleans as a cabin boy on a merchant ship and 
was employed by a Henry Morton Stanley, who 
later adopted him. Of Stanley's career, one of the 
most varied and remarkable of which there is 
authentic record, we will not write here; only twice 
in his life did he visit Denbigh and the last time 
his mother refused even to see him, alleging that he 
had been nothing but a roving ne'er-do-well. She 
had married again — Stanley was but three years 
old when his father died — and had apparently lost 
all maternal love for her son, destined to become so 
famous. It seems to have been the bitterest experi- 
ence of the explorer's life and he never attempted 
to see his mother again. Denbigh now deeply re- 
grets that his humble birthplace was pulled down 

273 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

some years ago, but the little church where he was 
baptized — which ranks next in importance to the 
birthplace, according to accepted English ideas — 
still stands, though it is not now used and is very 
much dilapidated. 

Our guide, when he has quite exhausted his his- 
toric lore and when the "objects of interest" have 
been pointed out and duly expatiated upon, tells us 
a story of a certain noble dame of ancient Denbigh 
which every newcomer needs must hear at least 
once. Lady Catherine of Beraine was of royal 
descent, her mother being a cousin of Queen Eliza- 
beth; she was enormously rich and was reputed of 
great intellectual attainments and force of character. 
But her fame to-day in her native town rests on 
none of these things; she is remembered as having 
had four noble husbands, all local celebrities, two 
of whom she acquired under, to say the least, very 
unusual circumstances. The first, a Salisbury, died 
not long after their marriage and was gathered to 
his fathers after the most approved fashion of the 
times. This required that a friend of the deceased 
escort the widow at the funeral and this — shall I 
say pleasant? — task fell to Sir Richard Clough, a 
widower of wealth and renown. Sir Richard's 
consolation went to very extraordinary length, for 
before the body of his friend was interred, he had 

274 



WE DISCOVER DENBIGH 

proposed to the widow and been accepted! On 
the return journey from the tomb, Sir Maurice 
Wynne approached the lady with a similar proposal, 
only to find to his chagrin and consternation that he 
was too late. But he did the next best thing and 
before he was through had the widow's solemn 
promise that in case she should be called upon to 
mourn Sir Richard he should be his friend's suc- 
cessor! Sir Richard considerately died at forty and 
his gracious widow proved true to her promise. 
She wedded Maurice Wynne and went to preside 
over one of the fairest estates in Wales. But this 
did not end her matrimonial experiences, for Wynne 
ere long followed his two predecessors to the 
churchyard and the third-time widow made a fourth 
venture with Edward Thelwall, a wealthy gentle- 
man of the town. Now while there may be some 
mythical details in this queer story, its main inci- 
dents were actually true, and so numerous are the 
descendants of the fair Catherine that she is some- 
times given the sobriquet of Mam Cymru, the 
Mother of Wales. An English writer says of her, 
"Never, surely, was there such a record made by 
a woman of quality. Herself of royal descent and 
great possessions and by all accounts of singular 
mental attraction if not surpassing beauty, she mar- 

275 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

ried successively into four of the most powerful 
houses of North Wales." 

We thank the custodian for the pains he has 
taken to inform and entertain us and bid him fare- 
well with the expected gratuity. We slip down 
the winding road to the market-place, where we 
pause for a short time to look about the town. We 
are told that it is one of the best in Northern Wales, 
both in a business and social way, and it is distinct- 
ly Welsh as contrasted with the English domina- 
tion of Welshpool, Ludlow and Shrewsbury. We 
see a prosperous-looking class of country folk in the 
market-place and while English generally prevails, 
Welsh is spoken by some of the older people. They 
are well-clad and give evidence of the intelligence 
and sobriety for which the northern Welshman is 
noted. The excellent horses on the streets show 
that the Welsh are as particular about their nags as 
are their English brethren. We wish that our plans 
had not been already made — we should like to 
take up quarters at the Crown or Bull and remain 
a day or two in Denbigh. But the best we can do 
now is to pick up a few souvenirs at an old curiosity 
shop near the market and secretly resolve to come 
back again. 

The road out of the town follows the green vale 
of the Clwyd to St. Asaph and Rhuddlan, both of 

276 



WE DISCOVER DENBIGH 

which have enough interest to warrant a few hours' 
pause. At St. Asaph we content ourselves with a 
drive around the cathedral — the smallest in the 
Kingdom — against which the haughty Leicester di- 
rected his designs three centuries ago. Its most con- 
spicuous feature is its huge square tower one hundred 
feet in height. The St. Asaph who gave his name 
to the village and cathedral is supposed to have 
founded a church here as early as the middle of 
the sixth century, one of the earliest in the King- 
dom. 

Five miles farther down the valley over a fine 
level road is Rhuddlan Castle. There are few 
more picturesque ruins in Britain than this huge red- 
stone fortress with its massive round gate-towers, 
almost completely covered with ivy. Only the 
outer shell and towers remain; inside is a level plat 
of green sward that gives no hint of the martial 
activity within these walls six or seven centuries 
ago. Rhuddlan was one of the several castles 
built by Edward I. in his efforts to subdue the 
Welsh, and here he held his court for three years 
while engaged in his difficult task. The whole 
town was a military camp and numbers of the sub- 
dued Welsh chieftains and their retainers must have 
come hither to make the best terms they could with 
their conqueror. But the ruin is quiet enough under 

277 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

the blue heavens that bend over it to-day — the daws 
flap lazily above its ancient towers and the smaller 
songsters chatter and quarrel in the thick ivy. The 
castle has stood thus ever since it was dismantled 
by the same General Mytton who forced the sur- 
render of Denbigh. 

There is much that might engage our time and 
attention along the twenty miles of roads that skirt 
the marshes and the sea between Rhuddlan and 
Conway, but we cannot linger to-day. An hour's 
run brings us into the little Welsh citadel shortly 
after noon and we forthwith repair to the Castle 
Hotel. 



278 



XVI 

CONWAY 

Mr. Moran has given us in his striking picture a 
somewhat unusual view of the towers of Conway 
Castle. A better-known aspect of the fine old ruin 
is shown by the photograph which I have repro- 
duced. Both, however, will serve to emphasize the 
point which I desire to make — that Conway, when 
seen from a proper distance, is one of the most pic- 
turesque of British castles. The first thing the way- 
farer sees when he approaches is this splendid group 
of crenelated round towers and it is the last object 
to fade on his vision when he reluctantly turns his 
feet away from the pleasant old village. And I 
care not how matter-of-fact and prosaic may be his 
temperament, he cannot fail to bear away an in- 
effaceable recollection of the grim beauty of the 
stately pile. 

The sea road takes us into the town by the way 
of the great suspension bridge, whose well-finished 
modern towers contrast rather unpleasantly with 
the rugged antiquity of the castle across the river; 
but the suspension bridge is none the less a work 

279 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

of art and beauty compared with the angular ugli- 
ness of the tubular railway structure that parallels 
it. We pay our modest toll and crossing over the 
green tide that is now setting strongly up the river, 
we glide beneath the castle walls into the town. 

The Castle Hotel we know by previous exper- 
ience to be one of those most delightful of old- 
fashioned country inns where one may be comfort- 
able and quite unhampered by excessive formality. 
Baedeker, it is true, gives the place of honor to 
the Oakwood Park, a pretentious resort hotel about 
a mile from the town, but this will hardly appeal 
to pilgrims like ourselves, who come to Conway 
to revel in its old-world atmosphere. The Castle, 
with its rambling corridors, its odd corners and 
plain though substantial furnishings, is far more to 
our liking. It stands on the site of Conway's Cister- 
cian Abbey, built by Prince Llewellyn in 1185, 
all traces of which have now disappeared. As the 
principal inn of the North Wales art center, its 
walls are appropriately covered with pictures and 
sketches — many of them original — and numerous 
pieces of artistic bric-a-brac are scattered about its 
hallways and mantels. We notice among the pic- 
tures two or three characteristic sketches by Mr. 
Moran and learn that he was a guest of the inn 
for several weeks last summer, during which time 

280 



CONWAY 

he painted the picture of the castle which adorns 
the pages of this book. The impression which he 
left with the manageress was altogether favorable; 
she cannot say enough in praise of the courtesy and 
kindness of her distinguished guest who gave her 
the much-prized sketches with his compliments. 
And she is quite familiar with the names and knows 
something about the work of several well-known 
British artists — for have they not been guests at the 
castle from time to time during the summer exhibits? 
Conway, as we shall see, occupies no small niche in 
the art world, having an annual exhibition of con- 
siderable importance, besides affording endless 
themes to delight the artistic eye. 

The immediate objective of the first-time visitor 
to Conway will be the castle, but this is our third 
sojourn in the ancient citadel and we shall give the 
afternoon to Plas Mawr. For, though we are quite 
as familiar with Plas Mawr as with the castle, the 
fine old mansion has a new attraction each year in 
the annual exhibit of the Royal Cambrian Academy 
and the walls are covered with several hundred pic- 
tures, many of them by distinguished British painters. 
The exhibit is generally acknowledged to be of first 
rank and usually includes canvases by Royal 
Academicians as well as the work of members of 
other distinguished British art societies. That it is 

281 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

not better known and patronized is not due to any 
lack of genuine merit; rather to the fact that so 
many tourists are ignorant of its very existence as 
well as the attractions of the town itself. Such, in- 
deed, was our own case; on our first visit to Con- 
way we contented ourselves with a glimpse of the 
castle and hastened on our way quite unaware of 
Plas Mawr and its exhibit. Stupid, of course; we 
might have learned better from Baedeker; but we 
thought there was nothing but the castle in Conway 
and did not trouble to read the fine print of our 
"vade mecum." A second visit taught us better; 
the castle one should certainly see — but Plas Mawr 
and its pictures are worth a journey from the remot- 
est corner of the Kingdom. Indeed, it was in this 
exhibit that I first became acquainted with the work 
of Mr. H. J. Dobson of Edinburgh, whose pictures 
I have had the pleasure of introducing in America. 
His famous "New Arrival" was perhaps the most- 
talked-of picture the year of our visit and is surely 
worth showing herewith as typical of the high qual- 
ity of the Royal Cambrian exhibit. And, indeed, 
this severely plain, almost pathetic, little home scene 
of the olden time might just as appropriately have 
been located in the environs of Conway. 

I have rambled on about Plas Mawr and its pic- 
tures to a considerable extent, but I have so far 

282 







<1 









3 as 
^ .,2 






ti 

a 



CONWAY 

failed to give much idea as to Plas Mawr itself 
aside from its exhibit. Its name, signifying "the 
great house," is appropriate indeed, for in the whole 
Kingdom there are few better examples — at least 
such as are accessible to the ordinary tourist — of 
the spacious home of a wealthy country gentleman 
in the romantic days of Queen Bess. It was planned 
for the rather ostentatious hospitality of the times 
and must have enjoyed such a reputation, for it is 
pretty well established that Queen Elizabeth her- 
self was a guest in the stately house. The Earl of 
Leicester, as we have seen, had large holdings in 
North Wales, and was wont to come to Snowdonia 
on hunting expeditions; Elizabeth and her court 
accompanied him on one occasion and were quar- 
tered in Plas Mawr. Tradition, which has for- 
gotten the exact date of the royal visit, has care- 
fully recorded the rooms occupied by the queen — 
two of the noblest apartments in the house. The 
sitting-room has a huge fireplace with the royal 
arms of England in plaster above the mantel. Ad- 
joining this apartment is the bedroom, beautifully 
decorated with heraldic devices and lighted with 
windows of ancient stained glass. 

But I must hasten to declare that I have no in- 
tention of describing in detail the various apartments 
of the great house. Each one has its own story 

283 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

and nearly all are decorated with richly bossed 
plaster friezes and ceilings. The circular stairways, 
the corridors, the narrow passageways and the 
courtyard are all unique and bring to the mind a 
host of romantic musings. You are not at all sur- 
prised to learn of Plas Mawr's ghostly habitant — 
it is, on the contrary, just what you expected. I 
shall not repeat this authentic ghost story; you may 
find it in the little guide-book of the house if such 
things appeal to you; and, besides, it is hardly 
suitable for my pages. It is enough to record that 
Plas Mawr has its ghost and heavy footfalls may 
be heard in its vacant rooms by those hardy enough 
to remain on nights when storms howl about the 
old gables. And it is these same old "stepped" 
gables with the queer little towers and tall chim- 
neys that lend such a distinguished air to the exter- 
ior of the old house. It would be a dull observer 
whose eye would not be caught by it, even in pass- 
ing casually along the street on which it stands. 
Above the door the date 1576 proves beyond ques- 
tion the year of its completion and shows that it 
has stood, little changed, for more than three cen- 
turies. It was built by one of the Wynne family, 
which was so distinguished and powerful in North 
Wales during the reign of Elizabeth. At present 
it is the private property of Lord Mostyn, but one 

284 




w 

Q 
<«J 
U 
<J 

z 

< 
2 

U 

< 

o 
o 

o 

as 

£ 

z 
o 
u 

s 

< 

On 



CONWAY 

cannot help feeling that by rights it should belong 
to the tight little town of Conway, which forms 
such a perfect setting for this gem of ancient archi- 
tecture. 

But enough of Plas Mawr — though I confess as 
I write to an intense longing to see it again. We 
must hie us back to our inn, for the dinner hour 
is not far off and we are quite ready for the Castle's 
substantial fare. There is still plenty of time after 
dinner to saunter about the town and the twilight 
hours are the best for such a ramble. When the 
subdued light begins to envelop castle and ancient 
walls, one may best realize the unique distinction 
of Conway as a bit of twelfth-century medievalism 
set bodily down in our workaday modern world. 
The telegraph poles and wires, the railways and 
great bridges fade from the scene and we see the 
ancient town, compassed with its mighty betowered 
walls and guarded by the frowning majesty of the 
castle. It is peculiarly the time to ascend the wall 
and to leisurely walk its entire length. We find it 
wonderfully solid and well-preserved, though ragged 
and hung with ivy; grasses carpet its crest in places, 
yellow and purple wall-flowers cling to its rugged 
sides, and in one place a sapling has found footing, 
apparently thriving in its airy habitat. Yet the wall 
is quite in its original state; the hand of the re- 

285 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

storer has hardly touched it, nor does it apparently 
require anything in the way of repair. How very 
different is it from the walls of York and Chester, 
which show clearly enough the recent origin of at 
least large portions throughout their entire courses. 
It reaches in places a height of perhaps twenty feet 
and I should think its thickness at the base nearly 
as great. In old days it was surmounted by twenty- 
one watchtowers, all of which still remain in a 
state of greater or less perfection. Its ancient Moor- 
ish-looking gateways still survive, though the mas- 
sive doors and drawbridges that once shut out the 
hostile world disappeared long since. We saunter 
leisurely down the wall toward the river and find 
much of interest whichever way we turn. The town 
spreads out beneath us like a map and we can 
detect, after some effort, its fanciful likeness to the 
shape of a harp — so dutifully mentioned by the 
guide-books. Just beneath this we gaze into the 
back yards of the poorer quarter and see a bevy 
of dirty little urchins going through endless antics 
in hope of extracting a copper or two from us — 
they know us well for tourists at once — who else, 
indeed, would be on the wall at such a time? A 
little farther are the rambling gables of Plas Mawr 
and on the extreme opposite side of the town, the 
stern yet beautiful towers of the castle are sharply 




INNER COURT, PLAS MAWR, CONWAY 



CONWAY 

silhouetted against the evening sky. How it all 
savors of the days of chivalrous eld; the flash of 
armor from yonder watchtowers, the deep voice 
of the sentry calling the hour, the gleam of rushlight 
from the silent windows or the reveille of a Norman 
bugle, would seem to be all that is required to trans- 
port us back to the days of the royal builder of the 
castle. Or if we choose to turn our gaze outside 
the walls, we may enjoy one of the finest vistas 
to be found in the British Isles. Looking down 
the broad estuary, through which the emerald- 
green tide is now pouring in full flow toward the 
sea, one has a panorama of wooded hills on the 
one hand and the village of Deganwy with the 
huge bulk of Great Orme's Head as a background 
on the other; while between these a vast stretch 
of sunset water loses itself in the distance. 

But we are at the north limit of the old wall 
— for it ends abruptly as it approaches the beach 
— and we descend to the promenade along the river. 
There is a boathouse here and a fairly good beach. 
If it had not so many rivals near at hand, Conway 
might boast itself as a resort town, but the average 
summer vacationist cares less for medieval walls 
and historic castles than for sunny beaches and all the 
diversions that the seaside resort town usually offers. 

287 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

He limits his stay in Conway to an hour or two 
and spends his weeks at Llandudno or Colwyn Bay. 

There are many odd corners that are worth the 
visitor's attention and one is sure to have them 
brought to his notice as he rambles about the town. 
"The smallest house in the Island" is one of them 
and the little old woman who occupies this cur- 
iosity will not let you pass without an opportunity 
to look in and leave a copper or two in recognition 
of her trouble. It is a boxlike structure of two 
floors about four by six feet each, comfortably 
furnished — to an extent one would hardly think 
possible in such very contracted quarters. There 
are many very ancient homes in the town dating 
from the sixteenth century and perhaps the best 
known of them — aside from Plas Mawr — is the 
little "Black Lion" in Castle Street. It is now 
fitted up as a museum, though its exhibit, I fear, 
is more an excuse to exact a shilling from the 
pocket of the tourist than to serve any great arche- 
ological end. The interior, however, is worth 
seeing, as it affords some idea of the domestic life 
of a well-to-do middle-class merchant of three or 
four hundred years ago. Another building in the 
same street is of even earlier date, for the legend, 
"A. D. 1400," appears in quaint characters above 
its door. Still another fine Elizabethan home shows 

288 






CONWAY 

the Stanley arms in stained glass — an eagle with 
outstretched wings swooping down upon a child — 
but this building, as well as many others in Con- 
way, has been "restored" pretty much out of its 
original self. I name these particular things merely 
to show what a wealth of interest the town possesses 
for the observer who has learned that there is some- 
thing else besides the castle and who is ^willing to 
make a sojourn of two or three days within the 
hoary walls. 

The church of St. Mary's has little claim to 
architectural distinction, but like nearly all the 
ancient churches of Britain, it has many odd bits 
of tradition and incident quite peculiar to itself. 
There is an elaborate baptismal font and a beauti- 
ful rood screen dating from the thirteenth century. 
John Gibson, R. A., the distinguished sculptor, who 
was born near Conway, is buried in the church 
and a marble bust has been erected to his memory. 
Another native buried within the sacred walls is 
entitled to distinction in quite a different direction, 
for a tablet over his grave declares: 

"Here lyeth the body of Nich's Hookes of Con- 
way, Gent, who was ye 41 child of his father 
William Hookes Esq. and the father of 27 chil- 
dren, who died on the 20 day of Mch. 1637." 

Surely, if these ancient Welshmen were alive 
289 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

to-day they would be lionized by our anti-race-sui- 
cide propagandists! In the chancel there are sev- 
eral elaborate monuments of the Wynne family 
which exhibit the usual characteristics of old-time 
British mortuary sculpture. One of these tombs 
is of circular shape, and interesting from its peculiar- 
ity, though none of them shows a high degree of 
the sculptor's art. 

Outside, near the south porch, is a curious sun 
dial erected in 1761, which is carefully graduated 
to single minutes. Near this is a grave made famous 
by Wordsworth in his well-known poem, "We are 
Seven," — for the poet, as we have learned in our 
wanderings, was himself something of a traveler and 
these simple verses remind us of his sojourn in 
Conway. Their peculiar appeal to almost every 
tourist is not strange when we recall that scarcely 
a school-reader of half a century ago omitted them. 

Conway, as might be expected, has many quaint 
customs and traditions. One of these, as described 
by a pleasing writer, may be worth retelling: 

"At Conway an old ceremony called the 
'Stocsio' obtained till the present reign, being ob- 
served at Eastertide, when on the Sunday crowds 
carrying wands of gorse were accustomed to pro- 
ceed to a small hill outside the town known as Pen 
twt. There the most recently married man was 

290 



CONWAY 

deputed to read out to a bare-headed audience the 
singular and immemorial rules that were to prevail 
in the town on the following day: All men under 
sixty were to be in the street by six o'clock in the 
morning; those under forty by four, while youths 
of twenty or less were forbidden to go to bed at all. 
Houses were searched, and much rough horse-play 
was going about. Defaulters were carried to the 
stocks, and there subjected to a time-honoured and 
grotesque catechism, calculated to promote much 
ridicule. Ball-play in the castle, too, was a dis- 
tinguishing feature of all these ancient fete days." 

Another carefully preserved tradition relates to 
the tenure of the castle by the town corporation, 
which must pay annually a fee of eight shillings 
sixpence to the crown, and the presentation by way 
of tribute of a "dish of fish" to the Marquis of 
Hertford — the titular Earl of Conway — whenever 
he visits the town. This gave rise to a ludicrous 
misunderstanding not very long ago. An old guide- 
book substituted "Mayor of Hereford" for Marquis 
of Hertford," and a perusal of this led the former 
dignitary to formally claim the honor when he was 
in Conway. The mayor of the ancient burg ex- 
plained the error to his guest, but went on to say 
that had sparlings, the peculiar fish for which the 
Conway River is noted, been in season and obtain- 

291 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

able, he would have had great pleasure in present- 
ing a dish of them to the Mayor of Hereford; as it 
was, it was understood that in default of the spar- 
lings the worthy civic clerk of Conway would treat 
his illustrious visitor to a bottle of champagne of an 
especially old and choice vintage. There is no 
record that the dignitary from Hereford made any 
objection to the substitution of something "just as 
good." 

In leaving the castle until the last, I am conscious 
that I am violating the precedent set by nearly all 
who have written of Conway and its attractions, 
but I have striven — I hope successfully — to show 
that there is enough in the old town to make a 
pilgrimage worth while, even if it did not have 
what is perhaps the most picturesque ruin in the 
Island. For the superior claims of Conway Castle 
are best described by the much-abused word, "pic- 
turesque/* While it has seen stirring times, it did 
not cut the figure of Denbigh, Harlech or Carnar- 
von in Welsh history, nor did it equal many others 
in size and impregnability. But to my mind it is 
doubtful if any other so completely fulfills the ideal 
of the towered and battlemented castle of the 
middle ages. From almost any viewpoint this is 
apparent, though the view from across the river is 
well-nigh spoiled by the obtrusively ugly tubular 

292 



CONWAY 

railroad bridge; nor does the more graceful suspen- 
sion bridge add to it, for that matter. In earlier 
times the only approach from this direction was by 
ferry — an "awkward kind of a boat called 
yr ysgraff," says a local guide-book. The boat 
seems to have been quite as unmanageable as its 
name, for on Christmas day, 1806, it capsized, 
drowning twelve persons. Twenty years later the 
suspension bridge was ready for use and the tubular 
bridge followed in 1848. 

Conway Castle was one of the several fortresses 
built by the first Edward to complete the conquest 
of Wales. It was designed by Henry de Elreton, 
a builder of great repute in his time and also the 
architect of Carnarvon and Beumaris. The work 
was conducted under personal command of the 
king and its completion in 1291 was celebrated by 
a great fete at Christmastime. As one wanders 
through the roofless, ivy-clad ruin, carpeted with 
the green sward that has crept over the debris- 
covered floors, and contemplates the empty windows 
open to all the winds of heaven, the fallen walls 
and crumbling towers, the broken arches — only one 
of the eight which spanned the great hall remaining 
— amid all the pathetic evidence of dissolution and 
decay, it is hard indeed to reconstruct the scene of 
gay life that must have filled the noble pile in that 

293 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

far-off day. Here the high-spirited and often ty- 
rannical king, accompanied by the queen, almost 
as ambitious and domineering as himself, had 
gathered the flower of English knighthood and no- 
bility with their proud dames and brightly liveried 
retainers to make merry while the monarch was forg- 
ing the chains to bind the prostrate principality. 
Here, we may imagine, the revelry of an almost 
barbarous time and people must have reached its 
height; and we may thank heaven that the old 
order of things is as shattered and obsolete as the 
ruined walls that surround us. 

As previously intimated, the history of Conway 
Castle is hardly in accord with its grandeur and im- 
portance. Its royal founder soon after its comple- 
tion found himself closely besieged within its walls 
by the Welsh and was nearly reduced to an un- 
conditional surrender, when the subsidence of the 
river made it possible for reinforcements to relieve 
the situation. A century later Richard II. com- 
manded the troops raised to war in his behalf on 
the haughty Bolingbroke to assemble at Conway, 
but the monarch's feebleness and vacillation brought 
all plans of aggressive action to naught; for he 
basely abandoned his followers and rushed blindly 
into his enemy's power. And thus what might 
have been a historic milestone in the career of the 

294 



CONWAY 

castle degenerated into an unimportant incident. 
Conway escaped easily during the civil war which 
sounded the knell of so many feudal castles. The 
militant Archbishop Williams, whose memorial we 
may see in the parish church, espoused the side of 
the king and after his efforts had put everything in 
shape for defence, he was ordered to turn over the 
command to Prince Rupert. This procedure on the 
part of Charles led the warlike churchman to sud- 
denly change his opinion of the justice of the royal 
cause and he at once joined forces with the Crom- 
wellians. He carried with him a considerable fol- 
lowing and personally assisted General Mytton in 
his operations against both Denbigh and Conway 
Castles. The latter was first to fall and the good 
bishop received the thanks of Parliament for his 
services and also a full pardon for the part he had 
taken in support of King Charles. He was also 
able to restore to his followers the valuables which 
had been hidden in the castle for safe keeping. 
Conway was another exception to Cromwell's rule 
of destruction of such feudal fortresses. Perhaps 
the fact that at the time of its surrender the Royal- 
ists were almost everywhere subdued and not likely 
to be able to reoccupy it, had something to do with 
this unusual leniency. In any event, the discredit 
for the destruction of the splendid structure rests 

295 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

with King Charles, who permitted one of his re- 
tainers to plunder it of its leaden roof and timbers. 
These materials were to be sent to Ireland — just for 
what purpose is not clear — but it does not matter, 
for the ships carrying the wreckage were all lost in 
a violent storm. 

Since that memorable period the old ruin has 
witnessed two and a half centuries of unbroken 
peace. Its enemies were no longer battering ram 
and hostile cannon. The wild storms of winter, 
the summer rains and the sea winds have expended 
their forces upon it, only to give it a weird, inde- 
scribable beauty such as it never could have pos- 
sessed in its proudest days. Careful restoration has 
arrested further decay and insures its preservation 
indefinitely. It has never figured in song or story 
to the extent its beauty and romance would lead 
us to expect, though Owen Rhoscomyl, a native 
Welshman, has written a stirring novel, "Battle- 
ments and Towers," which deals with the castle in 
civil war days. The story has a historic basis and 
the graves of the lovers, Dafyd and Morfa, may still 
be seen in Conway Church. 

But no Welshman has yet arisen to do for his 
native land what Scott did for Scotland. The field 
is fully as rich — surely the struggles of this brave 
little people were as heroic and full of splendid in- 

296 



CONWAY 

cident as anything that transpired in Scotch history. 
But as a venture for letters the field still lies fallow 
and perhaps the unromantic atmosphere of our 
present-day progress will always keep it so. In 
leaving Conway for our fifth sojourn at Ludlow we 
find ourselves wondering which of these may out- 
rank the other as the gem of all the smaller medie- 
val towns we have visited in Britain. Indeed, we 
have not answered the query yet, but we are sure 
the distinction belongs to one or the other. 



297 



XVII 

THE HARDY COUNTRY AND BERRY POMEROY 

It has been said that the traveler who has visited 
either John O'Groats or Land's End never feels 
at ease until he has both of these places to his 
"credit." I should be loath to confess that such a 
feeling had anything to do with our setting out from 
London with Land's End as an ill-defined objec- 
tive, though appearances may indeed favor such an 
inference. Once before we were within ten miles 
of the spot and did not feel interested enough to 
take the few hours for the trip. But now we have 
spent a night at John O'Groats — and have no very 
pleasant recollection of it, either — and should we 
ever tell of our exploit the first question would be, 
"And did you go to Land's End?" Be that as it 
may, we find ourselves carefully picking our way 
through the crowded Oxford street which changes 
its name a half dozen times before we come out 
into the Staines Road. We are not in the best of 
humor, for it was two o'clock when we left our 
hotel — we had planned to start at nine in the 
morning! But a refractory magneto in the hands 

298 



THE HARDY COUNTRY AND BERRY POMEROY 

of an English repair man — who had promised it 
on the day before — was an article we could not 
very well leave behind. 

Our itinerary — we never really made one, except 
in imagination — called for the night at Dorchester. 
We had previously passed through the pleasant old 
capital of the "Hardy Country" and felt a long- 
ing for a closer acquaintance. But Dorchester is 
one hundred and thirty miles from London and our 
usual leisurely jog will never get us there before 
nightfall — a fact still more apparent when we find 
nearly an hour has been consumed in covering the 
dozen miles to Staines. We shall have to open up 
a little — a resolution that receives a decided chill 
when a gentlemanly Automobile Association scout, 
seeing the emblem on our engine hood, salutes us 
with, "Caution, Sir! Police traps all the way to 
Basingstoke." We take some chances nevertheless, 
but slow down when we come to a hedgerow or 
other suspicious object which we fancy may afford 
concealment for the despised motor "cop." At 
Basingstoke a second scout pronounces the way 
clear to Andover and Salisbury and the fine undu- 
lating road offers every opportunity to make up 
for lost time — and police traps. If the speed limit 
had been twice twenty miles per hour, I fear we 

299 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

might — but we are not bound to incriminate our- 
selves! 

Salisbury's splendid spire — the loftiest and most 
graceful in all Britain — soon arises athwart the sun- 
set sky and we glide through the tortuous streets 
of the town as swiftly as seems prudent. The road 
to Blandford is equally good and just at dusk we 
enter the village of Puddletown, stretching for half 
a mile along the roadside. Its name is not pre- 
possessing, but Puddletown has a church that stands 
to-day as it stood nearly three hundred years ago, 
for it has not as yet fallen into the hands of the 
restorer. Its paneled and beamed ceiling of Spanish 
chestnut, innocent of paint or varnish, its oaken 
pews which seated the Roundheads and Royalists 
of Cromwell's day, its old-fashioned pulpit and its 
queer baptismal font, are those of the country church 
of nearly three centuries ago. The village is a 
cozy, beflowered place on a clear little river, whose 
name, the Puddle, is the only thing to preju- 
dice one against it. Just adjoining Puddletown is 
Aethelhampton Court, the finest country house in 
Dorset, which has been inhabited by one family, 
the Martins, for four hundred years. 

Darkness is setting in when we drive into the 
courtyard of the King's Arms in Dorchester. It is 
a wild, windy evening ; rain is threatening and under 

300 



THE HARDY COUNTRY AND BERRY POMEROY 

such conditions the comfortable old house seems an 
opportune haven indeed. It is a characteristic 
English inn such as Dickens eulogizes in "Pickwick 
Papers" — one where "everything looks — as every- 
thing always does in all decent English inns — as 
if the travelers had been expected and their com- 
forts prepared for days beforehand." There is a 
large, well-furnished sitting-room awaiting us, with 
bedrooms to match, and the evening meal is ready 
on a table resplendent with fresh linen and glitter- 
ing silver. In a cabinet in the corner of the dining- 
room is an elaborate silver tea-service with the leg- 
end, "Used by His August Majesty King Edward 
VII. when as Prince of Wales he was a guest of 
the King's Arms, Dorchester, on — " but we have 
quite forgotten the date. A rather recent and inno- 
cent tradition, but perhaps the traveler of two cen- 
turies hence may be duly impressed, for the silver 
service will be there if the King's Arms is still 
standing. It is an irregular old house, built nobody 
knows just when, and added to from time to time 
as occasion required. The lack of design is delight- 
fully apparent; it is a medley of scattered apart- 
ments and winding hallways. It would fit perfectly 
into a Dickens novel — indeed, with the wind howl- 
ing furiously outside and the rain fitfully lashing 
the panes we think of the stormy night at the 

301 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

Maypole in "Barnaby Rudge." But it has been 
a rather trying day and our musings soon fade into 
pleasant dreams when we are once ensconced in the 
capacious beds of the King's Arms. 

One can spend a profitable half day in Dor- 
chester and a much longer time might be consumed 
in exploring the immediate vicinity. There are two 
fine churches, All Saints', with a tall slender spire, 
and St. Peter's, with a square, battlemented tower 
from which peal the chimes of the town clock. In 
the latter church is a tomb which may interest the 
few Americans who come to Dorchester, since 
beneath it is buried Rev. John White, who took 
an active part in founding Massachusetts Colony. 
In 1624 he despatched a company of Dorset men 
to the new colony, raising money for them, pro- 
curing their charter and later sending out as the 
first governor, John Endicott of Dorchester, who 
sailed for New England in 1629 in the "George 
Bona Ventura." In both churches there is an un- 
usual number of effigies and monuments which prob- 
ably escaped because of Dorchester's friendliness 
for the Parliamentary cause — but none of them 
commemorates famous people. Outside St. Peter's 
there is a statue to William Barnes, the Dorset 
poet, with an inscription from one of his own poems 
which illustrates the quaint dialect he employed: 

302 



THE HARDY COUNTRY AND BERRY POMEROY 

"Zoo now I hope his kindly feace 

Is gone to find a better pleace: 

But still wf vo'k a-left behind 

He'll always be a-kept in mind." 
The county museum, adjoining the church, con- 
tains one of the best provincial collections in Eng- 
land. The vicinity is noted for Roman remains and 
a number of the most remarkable have found a 
resting-place here. There are curiosities galore in 
the shape of medieval implements of torture, among 
them a pair of heavy leaden weights labeled 
"Mercy," which a tender-hearted jailer ordered tied 
to the feet of a man hanged for arson as late as 
1836, so he would strangle more quickly. There 
are relics of Jeffreys' dread court, the chair he used 
when sentencing the Dorset peasants to transporta- 
tion and death and the iron spikes on which the 
heads of the rebels were exposed to blacken in the 
sun. There is much besides horrors in Dorchester 
Museum, though I suppose the gruesome and horri- 
ble will always get the greater share of attention. 
And such things are not without their educational 
and moral value, for they speak eloquently of the 
progress the human race has made to render such 
implements of torture only objects of shuddering 
curiosity. 

To the adhiirer of Thomas Hardy, the novelist, 
303 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

Dorchester will always have a peculiar interest, for 
here the master still lives, much alone, in a little 
house near the town, his simple life and habits 
scarcely differentiating him from the humblest Wes- 
sex peasant. I say "the novelist/' for another 
Thomas Hardy was also a Dorchester man — the 
admiral who supported the dying Nelson at Trafal- 
gar. The great writer, however, is known to all 
the townsmen and is universally admired and re- 
vered. Shortly after our visit the people of the town 
essayed a fete in his honor, the chief feature being 
two plays adapted from Wessex tales. Mr. Hardy, 
though in his seventy-second year, followed the 
rehearsals closely, sitting night after night in a dark 
corner of the auditorium. A correspondent de- 
scribed him as "a grave, gray little figure with waxed 
moustache ends and bright vigilant eyes, who rose 
occasionally to make a suggestion, speaking almost 
apologetically as if asking a favor." His sugges- 
tions usually had to do with the character and 
effect of word cadences. Nothing could exceed 
his sensitiveness to the harmonies of speech. "Will 
you let me see the book, please?" he would say. 
"I think that sentence does not sound right; I will 
alter it a little." 

He also personally arranged the hornpipe dance 
by shepherds in the cottage where three wayfarers 

304 



THE HARDY COUNTRY AND BERRY POME'ROY 

take shelter from a storm. The music was played 
by a fiddler nearly eighty years old who used to 
make a living by such rustic merrymakings and who 
is perhaps the last survivor of the race of fiddlers in 
Dorset. All the actors belonged to the town. One 
is a cooper, another a saddler, and there were 
clerks and solicitors and auctioneers. The producer 
who designed all the scenery is a monument mason 
and ex-mayor of Dorchester. 

It is perhaps too early to predict the place of 
Thomas Hardy in literature, though there be those 
who rank him with George Eliot. His home town, 
which he has given to fame as the Casterbridge of 
his tales, has no misgivings about the matter and 
freely ranks him with the immortals. The chilling 
philosophy of many of his books has not hidden his 
warm heart from his townsmen, who resent the 
word "stony" applied to him by an American 
writer. They say that his unpretentious life, his 
affability, his consideration for others and his mod- 
esty, all teach the lessons of love and hope, and 
that nothing is farther from his personal character 
than misanthropy or coldness. 

The history of Dorchester differs not greatly 
from that of many other English towns of its class. 
A Roman station undoubtedly existed here. The 
town was mentioned in the Doomsday Book and 

305 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

was a village of good size in the reign of Henry 
VIII. In 1613 it was totally destroyed by fire — 
a calamity which the citizens declared a 
"visitacion of God's wrath," to appease 
which they founded an almshouse and 
hospital. With business foresight they also 
established a brewery, the profits from which were 
expected to maintain the hospital, and the grave 
records show no intimation of any question whether 
such a plan might be acceptable to the Deity they 
sought to placate. 

Dorchester was strongly for the Parliament in the 
unpleasantness between Oliver and the king, but 
its loyalty was not very aggressive, for it surrendered 
to the royal army with scarcely a show of resistance 
— the more to its discredit, since it had been elab- 
orately fortified and was well supplied with muni- 
tions of war. It suffered severely for its cowardice, 
for it was taken and retaken many times during the 
war and its citizens subjected to numberless exactions 
and indignities. The ascendency of the common- 
wealth brought Dorchester comparative peace for 
three or four decades. The next notable event in its 
career was the coming of Jeffreys the infamous to 
judge the unfortunate Dorset men who inclined, or 
were alleged to have inclined, towards the Duke 
of Monmouth in his ill-starred attempt on the throne 

306 



THE HARDY COUNTRY AND BERRY POMKROY 

of England. To expedite matters, Jeffreys let it 
be understood that a plea of guilty would predis- 
pose him to mercy, but the poor wretches who fell 
into this trap were sentenced to death or transpor- 
tation on their own confessions. The charge lodged 
against most of the unfortunates was that they were 
"away from their habitacions att the tyme of the 
rebellion." 

For more than two centuries after this carnival 
of death, sanctioned by a corrupt and vengeful gov- 
ernment, Dorchester has pursued the paths of un- 
broken peace and has grown and prospered in a 
quiet way. The fame of Thomas Hardy attracts 
many and the roving motor car also brings an increas- 
ing number of pilgrims, none of whom go away 
disappointed. It is a trim old town, still picturesque, 
though modern improvements are making inroads 
on its antique quaintness. Its environs are singularly 
beautiful; the country roads enter the town between 
ranks of splendid trees and the avenues around the 
town are bordered with giant limes, sycamores and 
chestnuts. The River Frome glides quietly past 
the place through reedy meadows and the smooth 
green sward covers the ancient Roman amphitheatre 
which adjoins the town on the south. This is by 
far the most perfect work of its kind in Britain; it 
is about two hundred feet in diameter and must 

307 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

have accommodated some twelve thousand specta- 
tors. It lies just along the road by which we leave 
the town and which runs almost due west to Brid- 
port, Lyme Regis and Exeter. For some miles 
we pursue a sinuous course across the barren coun- 
try and occasionally encounter forbiddingly steep 
grades. At Bridport we catch our first glimpse of 
a placidly blue sea, which frequently flashes through 
gaps in the hills for the next twenty miles. 

At Lyme Regis the road pitches down a sharp 
hill into the town, which covers the slopes of a 
ravinelike valley. It is a retired little seaside resort, 
though red roofs of modern villas now contrast 
somewhat with its rural appearance. No railroad 
comes within several miles of the place, which has 
a permanent population of only two thousand. It 
is not without historic tradition, for here the Duke 
of Monmouth landed on his ill-fated invasion to 
which we have already referred. The town was a 
favorite haunt of Jane Austen and here she located 
one of the memorable scenes in "Persuasion." It 
is still a very quiet place — a retreat for those seeking 
real seclusion and freedom from the formality and 
turmoil of the larger and more fashionable resorts. 
Its tiny harbor, encircled by a crescent-shape sweep 
of cliffs, is almost innocent of craft to-day, though 
there was a time when it ranked high among the 

308 



THE HARDY COUNTRY AND BERRY POMEROY 

western ports. It is one of those delightful old 
villages one occasionally finds in England, standing 
now nearly as they did three centuries ago, while 
the great world has swept away from them. 

We wish we might tarry a day in Lyme Regis, 
but our plans will not permit it now. We climb 
the precipitously steep, irregular road that takes us 
out of the place, though we cast many backward 
glances at the little town and quiet blue-green har- 
bor edged by a scimiterlike strip of silver sand. The 
Exeter road is much the same as that between Lyme 
Regis and Dorchester — winding, steep, narrow and 
rough in places — and the deadly Devonshire hedge- 
row on a high earthen ridge now shuts out our view 
of the landscape much of the time. Devon and 
Cornwall, with the most charming scenery in Eng- 
land, would easily become a great motoring ground 
if the people would mend the roads and eradicate 
the hedgerows. 

At Exeter we stop at the Rougemont for lunch, 
despite the recollection of pretty high charges on 
a former occasion. It is one of the best provincial 
hotels, if it is far from the cheapest. A drizzling 
rain is falling when we leave the cathedral city for 
Newton Abbot and Totnes, directly to the south; 
in the market-place of the first-named town is the 

309 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

stone upon which William III. was proclaimed king 
after his landing at Brixham. 

Totnes, seven miles farther, has many quaint old 
houses with odd piazzas and projecting timbered 
gables, which give the streets a decidedly antique 
appearance. Here, too, is another famous stone, the 
identical one upon which Brutus of Troy first set 
foot when landing in Britain at a date so remote 
that it can only be guessed at. Indeed, there be 
wiseacres who freely declare that the Roman prince 
never set foot on it at all; but we are in no mood 
for such scepticism to-day, when cruising about in 
a steady rain seeking "objects of interest," as the 
road-book styles them. Of Totnes Castle only the 
foundations remain, though it must have been a 
concentric, circular structure like that of Launceston. 
From its walls on fair days there is a lovely, far- 
reaching view quite shut out from us by the gray 
mist that hovers over the valley — a scene described 
by a writer more fortunate than we as "a rich soft 
country which stretches far and wide, a land of 
swelling hills and richly wooded valleys and green 
corn springing over the red earth. Northwards on 
the skyline, the Dartmoor hills lie blue and seem- 
ing infinitely distant in the light morning haze ; while 
in the opposite direction, one sees a long straight 
reach of river, set most sweetly among the hills, up 

310 



THE HARDY COUNTRY AND BERRY POMEROY 

which the salt tide is pouring from Dartmouth so 
rapidly that it grows wider every moment, and the 
bitter sea air which travels with it from the Channel 
reaches as far as the battlements on which we 
stand. Up that reach the Totnes merchants, stand- 
ing on these old walls, used to watch their argosies 
sailing with the tide, homeward bound from Italy 
or Spain, laden with precious wines and spices." 

But no one who visits Totnes — even though the 
day be rainy and disagreeable — should fail to see 
Berry Pomeroy Castle, which common consent de- 
clares the noblest ruin in all Devon and Cornwall. 
We miss the main road to the village of Berry and 
appoach the ruin from the rear by a narrow, muddy 
lane winding over steep grades through a dense 
forest. We are not sure whether we are fortunate 
or otherwise in coming to the shattered haunt of 
the fierce old de Pomeroys on such a day. Perhaps 
its grim traditions and its legends of ghostly habi- 
tants seem the more realistic under such a lowering 
sky — and it may be that the gloomy day comports 
best with the scene of desolation and ruined gran- 
deur which breaks on our vision. 

The castle was an unusual combination of med- 
ieval fortress and palatial dwelling house, the great 
towers still flanking the entrance suggesting immense 
defensive strength, as does the situation on the edge 

311 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

of a rocky precipice. The walls are pierced by 
multitudes of mullioned windows — so many, indeed, 
an old chronicle records, that it was "a day's work 
for a servant to open and close the casements." In 
some details the more modern remnants of the struc- 
ture remind one of Cowdray Palace — especially 
the great window groups. Verily, "ruin greenly 
dwells" at Berry Pomeroy Castle. Ivy mantles every 
inch of the walls and some fragments, rising tall and 
slender like chimneys, are green to the very tops. 
The green sward runs riot over the inner courts and 
covers fallen masses of debris; great trees, some of 
them doubtless as old as the castle itself, sway their 
branches above it; our pictures tell the story, per- 
haps better than any words, of the rank greenness 
that seems even more intense in the falling rain. 

One quite forgets the stirring history of the castle 
— and it is stirring, for does not tradition record 
that its one-time owners urged their maddened 
steeds to spring to death with their riders from the 
beetling precipice on which the castle stands, rather 
than to surrender to victorious besiegers? — I say one 
forgets even this in the rather creepy sensations that 
come over him when he recalls the ghostly legends 
of the place. For Berry Pomeroy Castle has one 
of the most blood-curdling and best authenticated 
ghost stories that it has been my lot to read. It 

812 



THE HARDY COUNTRY AND BERRY POMEROY 

has a weird interest that warrants retelling here and 
the reader who has no liking for such things may 
skip it if he chooses. 

"Somewhat more than a century ago, Dr. Walter 
Farquhar, who was created a baronet in 1796, 
made a temporary sojourn in Torquay. This phy- 
sician was quite a young man at that time and had 
not acquired the reputation which, after his settle- 
ment in London, procured him the confidence and 
even friendship of royalty. One day, during his 
stay in Devon, he was summoned professionally to 
Berry Pomeroy Castle, a portion of which building 
was still occupied by a steward and his wife. The 
latter was seriously ill, and it was to see her that 
the physician had been called in. Previous to see- 
ing his patient Dr. Farquhar was shown an outer 
apartment and requested to remain there until she 
was prepared to see him. This apartment was 
large and ill-proportioned; around it ran richly 
carved panels of oak that age had changed to the 
hue of ebony. The only light in the room was 
admitted through the chequered panes of a gor- 
geously stained window, in which were emblazoned 
the arms of the former lords of Berry Pomeroy. In 
one corner, to the right of the wide fireplace, was 
a flight of dark oaken steps, forming part of a stair- 
case leading apparently to some chamber above; 

313 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

and on these stairs the fading gleams of summer's 
twilight shone through. 

"While Dr. Farquhar wondered, and, if the 
truth be told, chafed at the delay which had been 
interposed between him and his patient, the door 
opened, and a richly dressed female entered the 
apartment. He, supposing her to be one of the 
family, advanced to meet her. Unheeding him, she 
crossed the room with a hurried step, wringing her 
hands and exhibiting by her motions the deepest 
distress. When she reached the foot of the stairs, 
she paused for an instant and then began to ascend 
them with the same hasty step and agitated de- 
meanour. As she reached the highest stair the light 
fell strongly on her features and displayed a counte- 
nance youthful, indeed, and beautiful, but in which 
vice and despair strove for mastery. 'If ever human 
face,' to use the doctor's own words, 'exhibited 
agony and remorse; if ever eye, that index of the 
soul, portrayed anguish uncheered by hope and 
suffering without interval; if ever features betrayed 
that within the wearer's bosom there dwelt a hell, 
those features and that being were then pres- 
ent to me.' 

"Before he could make up his mind on the na- 
ture of this strange occurrence, he was summoned 
to the bedside of his patient. He found the lady 

814 



THE HARDY COUNTRY AND BERRY POMKROY 

so ill as to require his undivided attention, and had 
no opportunity, and in fact no wish, to ask any 
questions which bore on a different subject to her 
illness. 

"But on the following morning, when he repeated 
his visit and found the sufferer materially better, he 
communicated what he had witnessed to the hus- 
band and expressed a wish for some explanation. 
The steward's countenance fell during the physi- 
cian's narrative and at its close he mournfully 
ejaculated : 

M 'My poor wife! my poor wife!' 
" 'Why, how does this relation affect her?' 
' 'Much, much!' replied the steward, vehe- 
mently. 'That it should have come to this! I 
cannot — cannot lose her! You know not,' he con- 
tinued in a milder tone, 'the strange, sad history; 
and — and his lordship is extremely averse to any 
allusion being ever made to the circumstance or any 
importance attached to it; but I must and will out 
with it! The figure which you saw is supposed to 
represent the daughter of a former baron of Berry 
Pomeroy, who was guilty of an unspeakable crime in 
that chamber above us; and whenever death is 
about to visit the inmates of the castle she is seen 
wending her way to the scene of her crimes with 
the frenzied gestures you describe. The day my 

315 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

son was drowned she was observed; and now my 
wife!' 

1 'I assure you she is better. The most alarming 
symptoms have given way and all immediate danger 
is at an end/ 

' I have lived in and near the castle thirty years/ 
was the steward's desponding reply, 'and never 
knew the omen fail/ 

" 'Arguments on omens are absurd/ said the 
doctor, rising to take his leave. 'A few days, how- 
ever, will, I trust, verify my prognostics and see Mrs. 
S recovered/ 

"They parted, mutually dissatisfied. The lady 
died at noon. 

"Years intervened and brought with them many 
changes. The doctor rose rapidly and deservedly 
into repute; became the favourite physician and 
even personal friend of the Prince Regent, was 
created a baronet, and ranked among the highest 
authorities in the medical world. 

"When he was at the zenith of his professional 
career, a lady called on him to consult him about 
her sister, whom she described as sinking, overcome 
and heartbroken by a supernatural appearance. 

1 'I am aware of the apparent absurdity of the 
details which I am about to give/ she began, 'but 
the case will be unintelligible to you, Sir Walter, 

816 



THE HARDY COUNTRY AND BERRY POMEROY 

without them. While residing at Torquay last 
summer, we drove over one morning to visit the 
splendid remains of Berry Pomeroy Castle. The 
steward was very ill at the time (he died, in fact, 
while we were going over the ruins,) and there 
was some difficulty in getting the keys. While my 
brother and I went in search of them, my sister 
was left alone for a few moments in a large room 
on the ground-floor; and while there — most absurd 
fancy! — she has persuaded herself she saw a female 
enter and pass her in a state of indescribable distress. 
This spectre, I suppose I must call her, horribly 
alarmed her. Its features and gestures have made 
an impression, she says, which no time can efface. 
I am well aware of what you will say, that nothing 
can possibly be more preposterous. We have tried 
to rally her out of it, but the more heartily we laugh 
at her folly, the more agitated and excited does she 
become. In fact, I fear we have aggravated her 
disorder by the scorn with which we have treated 
it. For my own part, I am satisfied her impressions 
are erroneous, and rise entirely from a depraved 
state of the bodily organs. We wish for your opin- 
ion and are most anxious you should visit her with- 
out delay/ 

' 'Madam, I will make a point of seeing your 
sister immediately; but it is no delusion. This I 

317 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

think it proper to state most positively, and pre- 
vious to any interview. I, myself, saw the same 
figure, under somewhat similar circumstances and 
about the same hour of the day; and I should 
decidedly oppose any raillery or incredulity being 
expressed on the subject in your sister's presence/ 

"Sir Walter saw the young lady next day and 
after being for a short time under his care she 
recovered. 

"Our authority for the above account of how 
Berry Pomeroy Castle is haunted derived it from 
Sir Walter Farquhar, who was a man even more 
noted for his probity and veracity than for his pro- 
fessional attainments, high as they were rated. The 
story has been told as nearly as possible in Sir 
Walter's own words." 

Yonder is the "ghost's walk," along that totter- 
ing wall; yonder is the door the apparition is said 
to enter. If you can stand amidst these deserted 
ruins on a dark, lowering evening and feel no 
qualms of nervousness after reading the tale, I think 
you are quite able to laugh all ghosts to scorn. 

We have lingered long enough at Berry Pomeroy 
— we can scarce cover the twenty miles to Ply- 
mouth ere darkness sets in. But fortune favors us; 
at Totnes the rain ceases and a red tinge breaks 
through the clouds which obscure the western sky. 

318 



THE HARDY COUNTRY AND BERRY POMEROY 

We have a glorious dash over the wet road which 
winds through some of the loveliest of Devonshire 
landscapes. Midway, from the hilltop that dom- 
inates the vale of the Erme, we get a view of Ivy 
Bridge, a pleasant village lying along the clear river, 
half hidden in the purple haze of evening; and just 
at dusk we glide into the city of the Pilgrim 
Fathers. 



319 



XVIII 

POLPERRO AND THE SOUTH CORNISH COAST 

We did not search our road-maps for Polperro 
because of anything the guide-books say about it, 
for these dismiss it as a "picturesque fishing village 
on the South Devonshire coast." There are dozens 
of such villages in Devon and Cornwall, and only 
those travelers whose feet are directed by some 
happy chance to Polperro will know how much it 
outshines all its rivals, if, indeed, there are any 
worthy to be styled as such. Our interest in the 
quaint little hamlet was aroused at a London art 
exhibit, where a well-known English artist showed 
some three score clever sketches which arrested our 
attention at once. 

"I made them last summer during a stay at Pol- 
perro," he said in answer to our inquiry. 

"And where is Polperro, pray?" we asked with 
visions of Italy or Spain and were taken aback not 
a little to learn that a Devonshire village afforded 
subject matter for the sketches. And forthwith 
Polperro was added to the list of places we must 
see on our projected Land's End tour. A diligent 

320 



POLPERRO AND THE SOUTH CORNISH COAST 

search of our maps finally revealed the name and 
showed the distance about twenty miles from Ply- 
mouth. The road is steep and winding and there 
is only a network of narrow lanes for some miles 
out of the village. 

We leave Plymouth after a night's sojourn at the 
Grand Hotel and cross the estuary at the Tor 
Point ferry, which makes trips at frequent intervals. 
A flat-bottomed ferry boat, held in place against 
the strong tides by heavy chains anchored at either 
end, takes us across for a moderate fare and we 
set out beneath a lowering sky to explore the rough 
and difficult but beautiful bit of country stretching 
along the coast from Plymouth to Fowey Harbor. 
Indeed, we had in mind to cross the estuary by 
ferry at the latter place and asked a garage employee 
about the facilities for so doing. 

"Hi wouldn't recommend it, sir. Last week a 
gent with a motor tried it and the boat tipped and 
let the car into the water. Hi went down to 'elp 
them get it out and you could just see the top stick- 
ing out at low tide." 

And so we altered our route to go around the 
estuary — some fifteen miles — rather than chance 
repeating the exciting experience of our fellow-mo- 
torist of the week before. But this is a digression 
— I had meant to say that there is little to engage 

321 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

our attention for several miles after crossing at Tor 
Point. The country is studded with rough hills 
and our route cuts across some of these, a wide 
outlook often rewarding the steep climb to the sum- 
mits. We cautiously follow the sinuous road until 
it pitches sharply down into the ravinelike coomb 
occupied by the Looes, East and West, according 
to their position on the river. These villages cling 
to the steep hills, rising from either side of the 
river, which we cross by a lichen-covered bridge 
hung with a multitude of fishing nets. We see a 
confused medley of houses elbowing one another 
out into the roadway until their sagging gables nearly 
meet in places, built apparently with sublime disre- 
gard of the points of the compass and without any 
preconceived plan. Once it was a famous fishing 
port, but now the industry is conducted on a small 
scale only and the Looes have to depend largely 
on vacationists from Plymouth in summertime. We 
do not linger here, but after crossing the bridge we 
enter the narrow road that cuts straight across the 
hills to Polperro. It is a rough, hilly road and the 
heavy grades shift the gears more than once; but 
it carries us to splendid vantage-points where we 
pause to glance at the landscape. There are wide 
expanses of wooded hills with lovely intersecting 
valleys, the predominating green dashed with broad 

322 



POLPERRO AND THE SOUTH CORNISH COAST 

splotches of purple heather — the rankest and most 
brilliant of any we saw in a land famous for its 
heather! Over all stretches the mottled sky, reflect- 
ing its moods on the varied scenes beneath — here a 
broad belt of sunlight, yonder a drifting shower, 
for it is one of those fitful days that alternately 
smiles and weeps. We descend another long hill 
and enter the lane which runs down the ravine into 
the main street of Polperro. 

The main street of Polperro! Was there ever 
another avenue like it? — a cobble-paved, crooked 
alley scarce a half dozen feet from curb to curb, 
too narrow for vehicles of any kind to pass. The 
natives come out and stare in wonderment at our 
presumption in driving a motor into Polperro — and 
we become a little doubtful ourselves when a sharp 
turn bars our progress near the post office. A man, 
seeing us hesitate, tells us we cannot very well go 
farther — a suggestion with which we quite agree — 
and leaving the car surrounded by a group of won- 
dering children we set out on foot to explore the 
mysteries of Polperro. 

I think we can truthfully declare that of all the 
queer villages we saw in Britain — and it would be 
a long story to tell of them — no other matched the 
simple, unpretentious fisher-town of Polperro. No 
huge hotel with glaring paint, no amusement pier 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

or promenade, none of the earmarks of the con- 
ventional resort into which so many fine old towns 
have — shall I say degenerated? — are to be seen; 
nothing but the strangest jumble of old stone houses, 
wedged in the narrow ravinelike valley. So irreg- 
ularly are they placed, with such a total disregard 
of straight lines and directions, that it seems, as one 
writer has remarked, that they might originally have 
been built on the hillsides at decent distances from 
each other and by some cataclysm slid down in a 
solid mass along the river. The streets are little 
more than footpaths and wind among a hundred 
odd corners, of which the one shown in our sketch 
is only typical. We cross the river — at low tide 
only a shallow stream — by the narrow high-arched 
bridge, whose odd design and lichen-covered stones 
are in perfect keeping with the surroundings, and 
come out on the sea wall that overlooks the tiny 
harbor. A dozen old salts — dreaming, no doubt, 
of their active younger days on the blue sea stretch- 
ing out before them — are roused from their reveries 
and regard us curiously. Evidently tourists are not 
an everyday incident in Polperro, and they treat us 
with the utmost civility, answering our queries in 
broad Cornish accent that we have to follow closely 
to understand. A few fishing boats still go out of 
the town, but its brave old days are past; modern 

324 




< 

in 

w 
x 

H 

a 

as 

o 

'J 

2 

o 
o 
J 
I 

J 
J 
< 

z 

as 

u 



as 
as 
a 

j 
o 



POLPERRO AND THE SOUTH CORNISH COAST 

progress, while it has left Polperro quite untouched, 
has swept away its ancient source of prosperity. 
Once its harbor was a famous retreat for smugglers, 
who did a thriving business along the Cornish coast, 
and it is possible some of these old fellows may 
have heard their fathers tell thrilling tales of the 
little craft which slipped into the narrow inlet with* 
contraband cargos; of wrecks and prizes, with spoils 
of merchandise and gold, so welcome to the needy 
fisherfolk, and of fierce and often deadly conflicts 
with the king's officers. 

The tide is out and a few boats lie helplessly 
on their sides in the harbor; no doubt the scene is 
more animated and pleasing when the green water 
comes swelling up the inlet and fills the river chan- 
nel, now strewn with considerable unsightly de- 
bris. A violent storm driving the ocean into the 
narrow cleft where the town lies must be a fear- 
some spectacle to the inhabitants, and fortunately 
it has been well described by Polperro's historian, 
who has told a delightful story of the town. 

"In the time of storm," he writes, "Polperro is 
a striking scene of bustle and excitement. The 
noise of the wind as it roars up the coomb, the 
hoarse rumbling of the angry sea, the shouts of the 
fishermen engaged in securing their boats, and the 
screams of the women and children carrying the 

325 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

tidings of the latest disaster, are a peculiarly melan- 
choly assemblage of sounds, especially when heard 
at midnight. AH who can render assistance are 
out of their beds, helping the sailors and fishermen; 
lifting the boats out of reach of the sea, or taking 
the furniture of the ground floors to a place of 
safety. When the first streak of morning light 
comes, bringing no cessation of the storm, but only 
serving to show the devastation it has made, the 
effect is still more dismal. The wild fury of the 
waves is a sight of no mean grandeur as it dashes 
over the peak and falls on its jagged summit, from 
whence it streams down the sides in a thousand 
waterfalls and foams at its base. The infuriated 
sea sweeps over the piers and striking against the 
rocks and houses on the warren side rebounds to- 
wards the strand, and washes fragments of houses 
and boats into the streets, where the receding tide 
leaves them strewn in sad confusion/* 

A brisk rain begins as we saunter along the 
river, and we recall that the car has been left with 
top down and contents exposed to the weather. 
We hasten back only to find that some of the fisher- 
folk have anticipated us — they have drawn the top 
forward and covered everything from the rain as 
carefully as we could have done — a thoughtfulness 
for the stranger in the village that we appreciate 

326 



iAR' *»*>^ ' .s -^>>* ,. At/ V 1 


1 " w > 




: mi 








15 j j'' 




ir« 41 Iff* *^5ttir>\ V3 *^ »v 


[1ji,M 


fig 




i : 

If*; 


1 * , 










! 




WKKKK 


v \! /" / 




V mm, 


;***^lgK 






"^y -r" 1 /^V^" 








5%L 


4 - s^ J 




-»■;■ ! #^' 








fitf 


7* 


11 




p§| #^; 



o 

W 

Oh 

o 

E 
U 
Oh 
D 
X 

u 
o 

< 



POLPERRO AND THE SOUTH CORNISH COAST 

all the more for its rarity. And though we left the 
car surrounded by a group of merry, curious children, 
not a thing is disturbed. 

The postmaster is principal shopkeeper and from 
him we learn something of the town and secure a 
number of pictures which we prize, though pictures 
are hopelessly inadequate to give any real idea of 
Polperro. As yet tourist visitors to the village are 
not numerous, though artists frequently come and 
are no longer a source of wonderment to the natives. 
Two plain but comfortable old inns afford fair ac- 
commodations for those who wish to prolong their 
stay. With the increasing vogue of the motor car, 
Polperro's guests are bound to be on the increase, 
though few of them will remain longer than an hour 
or two, since there is little to detain one save the 
village itself. 

Lansallos Church is a splendid edifice surrounded 
by tall trees beneath which are mouldering grave- 
stones upon which one may read queer inscriptions 
and epitaphs. There is also an ancient water-mill 
just where the road enters the village, which still 
does daily duty, its huge overshot wheel turning 
slowly and clumsily as the clear little moorland stream 
dashes upon it. No. famous man has come forth 
from the village, but it produced a host of hardy 
seamen, who, under such leaders as Drake and 

327 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

Nelson, did their full share in maintaining the un- 
broken naval supremacy of England. And not a 
few of those who fought so valiantly for their country 
gained their sea training and developed their hardi- 
hood and resourcefulness in the ancient and — in 
Devon and Cornwall — honorable occupation of 
smuggling. 

We follow narrow, hedge-bordered lanes north- 
ward for several miles to regain the main road from 
Liskeard to Lostwithiel; for while we should have 
preferred the coast route, we have no desire to try 
conclusions with the ferry at Fowey. The fitful 
weather has taken another tack and for half an 
hour we are deluged, the driving rain turning the 
narrow roads into rivers and making progress ex- 
ceedingly slow. When we reach the main highway 
the rain abruptly ceases and the sky again 
breaks into mottled patches of blue and white, which 
scatter sunshine and shadow over the fields. The 
country is intensely green and we are now in a spot 
which a good authority declares the loveliest inland 
scenery in Cornwall. It is the pleasant vale of the 
River Fowey, in the center of which stands the 
charming old town of Lostwithiel, surrounded by 
luxuriant pastures which stretch away to the green 
encircling hills. There is a fourteenth-century bridge 
in the town which seems sturdy for all its six 

328 



POLPERRO AND THE SOUTH CORNISH COAST 

hundred years of flood and storm; and the church 
spire, with its richly carved open-work lantern, has 
been styled "the glory of Cornwall," and we will 
agree that it is one of the glories of Cornwall, in 
any event. It shows marks of cannon shot, for con- 
siderable fighting raged round the town during the 
civil war. 

So narrow and steep is the street that pitches 
down the hill into Fowey that we leave the car at 
the top and make the descent on foot. Indeed, the 
majority of the streets of the town are so narrow 
and crooked that it is difficult for a vehicle of any 
size to get about easily. From the hill we have a 
fine view of the little land-locked harbor, dotted 
with fishing vessels. It shows to-day a peculiar color 
effect — dark blue, almost violet, out seaward, while 
it fades through many variations of greens and 
blues into pale emerald near the shore. The town 
is clean and substantial-looking and it must have 
presented much the same appearance two hundred 
years ago — no doubt most of the buildings we now 
see were standing then. It is now a mere fisher 
village, somewhat larger and not quite so primitive 
as Polperro, though in the day of smaller ships it 
contended with Plymouth and Dartmouth for dis- 
tinction as chief port of Cornwall. It was during 
its period of prosperity and maritime importance 

329 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

that the two towers, yet standing, were erected to 
guard the entrance of the harbor. A chain stretched 
between these made the town almost impregnable 
from attack by sea. Here the old-time seamen 
dwelt in security and plotted smuggling expeditions 
and raids upon the French — gentle occupations 
which greatly contributed to the prosperity of the 
town. These profitable trades about the middle of 
the fifteenth century proved Fowey's undoing. 
Peace had been declared with France, but the 
bold sailors went on with their raids and captured 
French vessels quite regardless of the treaties with 
that nation. This so incensed King Edward IV. 
that he caused numerous "leading citizens" of 
Fowey to be summarily hanged, levied a heavy fine 
on the town, and handed its ships over to the port 
of Dartmouth. The last proceeding seems like a 
grim bit of humor, for Dartmouth sailors were no 
less offenders against France than their unfortunate 
neighbors. After this sad experience it was long 
ere Fowey again held up its head and in the mean- 
while it was far distanced by its former rivals. Its 
sailors, who had wrought many valorous deeds in 
the English navy, were little heard of afterwards 
and the rash, foolish action of the king practically 

wiped out an important port that would still have 

330 



POLPERRO AND THE SOUTH CORNISH COAST 

bred thousands of bold seamen to serve their coun- 
try. 

At the harbor wall a grizzled old fisherman ap- 
proaches us and politely touching his cap offers to 
row us to a number of places which he declares we 
should see. We demur, not being fond of row- 
boats ; he persists in his broad South-Country speech 
— to give it is past my linguistic powers, though I 
wish I could — "Pardon me for pushing my trade; 
it's the only way I have of earning a living now, 
since I gave up the sea." We think it worth the 
modest sum he proposes to charge us for a trip to 
hear him talk and we ask him about himself. 

"I was a sailor, sir, for more than fifty years and 
I saw a lot of hardship in my day with nothing to 
show for it now. It was all right when I was 
young and fond of roving, but as I grew old it be- 
gan to pall and I wished I might have been able to 
lead a different life. But I had to stick to it until 
I was too old to stand the work, and I got the little 
boat here which makes me a poor living — there's 
nothing doing except in summertime and I have to 
get along as best I can in winter." 

"Do you own a house?" 

"Own a house?" he echoed in surprise at our 
ignorance. Nobody owns a house here; the squire 
who lives in the big place on the hill yonder owns 

331 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

the town — and everybody in it. A common man 
hasn't any chance to own anything in England. It 
doesn't seem fair and I don't understand it — but we 
live by it in England — we live by it in England." 

We divert his bitter reflections by asking him 
about the town. 

"Don't forget the old Ship Inn," he said, "and 
the church — it has the tallest tower in Cornwall. 
You can see through the big castle on the hill if 
you get permission. Any famous people? — why, 
yes — Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch lives here. He's 
our only titled man and some of his books, they 
say, tell about Fowey." 

We thank our sailor friend and repair to the 
Ship Inn, as he counseled us. They show us the 
"great Tudor room," the pride of the house — a 
large beamed and paneled apartment with many 
black-oak carvings. But the chief end of the Ship 
to-day appears to be liquor selling, and not being 
bibulously inclined, we depart for the church. It 
was built in the reign of Edward IV., just before 
that monarch dealt the town its death-blow as a 
port and marked the end of Fowey's prosperity. 
The timber roof, the carved-oak pulpit and stone 
baptismal font are all unusually fine and there are 
some elaborate monuments to old-time dignitaries of 
the town. Place House, the great castellated palace 

332 




PROBUS CHURCH TOWER, CORNWALL 



POLPERRO AND THE SOUTH CORNISH COAST 

on the hill, with immense, elaborately carved bow- 
windows, is the dominating feature of the town. 
Inside there is some remarkable open timberwork 
roofing the great hall and much antique paneling 
and carving. There is also a valuable collection of 
furniture and objects of art which has accumulated 
in the four hundred years that the place has be- 
longed to the Treffry family. It is more of a pala- 
tial residence than a fortress and it appears never to 
have suffered seriously from siege or warfare. 

We are soon away on the highroad to Truro, 
which proves good though steep in places. There 
is a fine medieval church at St. Austell and another 
at Probus has one of the most striking towers we 
saw in England. It is of later origin than the main 
body of the church; some two hundred feet high, 
and is surmounted by Gothic pinnacles, with carved 
stone balustrades extending between them. Near 
the top it is pierced by eight large perpendicular 
windows, two to each side, and it is altogether a 
graceful and imposing edifice. Such churches in 
the poor little towns that cluster about them — no 
doubt poorer when the churches were built — go to 
show the store the Cornishmen of early days set by 
their religion, which led them out of their poverty 
to rear such stately structures; but it is quite likely 
that a goodly part of the profits of their old occu- 

333 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

pations — wrecking, smuggling and piracy — went in- 
to these churches as a salve to conscience. Nor is 
the church-building spirit entirely extinct, as proven 
by the magnificent towers of Truro Cathedral, of 
which I shall have more to say anon and which 
soon breaks into our view. 

As a matter of variation we take the southern 
route by the way of Helston from Truro to Pen- 
zance. This is rougher and has more steep hills 
than the direct road through Rudruth. Helston is 
some ten miles north of the Lizard Peninsula, where 
there is much beautiful coast scenery — especially 
Kynance Cove. Coming up the road along the 
coast toward Marazion, one gets a perfect view of 
the castle-crowned bulk of the Cornish St. Michael's 
Mount, the seat of the St. Aubyns. In the distance 
it stands like an immense pyramid against a wide 
reach of sunset sky, but as we come nearer the 
towers and battlements of the castle come out weird 
and strange; in the purple shadows the whole vast 
pile savors of enchantment. Beyond it shimmers 
the wide calm of Penzance Harbor — as it chances, 
dotted with the dark forms of some fifty leviathans 
of the British navy. For there is to be a great 
naval review in Penzance the coming week; the 
king and queen and a host of celebrities are expected. 
The town is gay with decorations and delirious with 

334 




o 
H 60 

°d 
u.S 

^S 

£ bO 

HI! 

tf o 



POLPERRO AND THE SOUTH CORNISH COAST 

expectancy of the big events to come. Graham- 
White, the famous aviator, is to appear and there 
are to be many thrilling evolutions and much 
powder-burning by the royal fleet. Hotels and 
lodging-houses are crowded to the limit and if we 
have ever been somewhat dubious whether to try 
the hospitality of Land's End for the night, it is 
settled now — we could hardly stay in Penzance 
unless we camp on the street. It was indeed a 
bitter disappointment to Penzance that the capri- 
cious Cornish weather completely ruined the ex- 
pected fete. Furious winds and continual rain 
drove the fleet to the more sheltered Tor Bay and 
the programme, on a greatly reduced scale, took 
place there. Aside from the disappointment, the 
people of the town suffered a heavy loss in the large 
sums they had spent in anticipation of the event. 
But Penzance is all unconscious of the fate in store 
for it; its streets are thronged and it is fairly ablaze 
with the national colors and elaborate electrical 
decorations. We thread our way slowly through 
its streets into the lonely indifferent lane that winds 
over steep and barren hills to Land's End. 



335 



XIX 

LAND'S END TO LONDON 

The first sight of Land's End Hotel, a low, 
drab-colored building standing on the bleak head- 
land, is apt to beget in the wayfarer who approaches 
it at sunset a feeling of regret that he passed through 
Penzance without stopping for the night. Nor does 
his regret grow less when he is assigned to ill-fur- 
nished rooms with uncomfortable-looking beds — 
which, I may say, do not belie their looks — or when 
he sits down to a dinner that is only a slight improve- 
ment upon our memorable banquet at John 
O'Groats. But we did not come to Land's End 
to find London hotel comforts and conveniences, 
but for purely sentimental reasons, which should 
preclude any fault-finding if accommodations are 
not just to our liking. It was our fancy to spend 
a night at both Land's End and John O'Groats — 
and it must be largely imagination that attracts so 
many tourists to these widely separated localities, 
since there are surely hundreds of bits of English 
and Scottish coast more picturesque or imposing 
than either. 

336 







°2 






02 O 

02g 



LAND'S END TO LONDON 

But here we are, in any event, and we go forth 
in the gray twilight to take note of our surroundings. 
An old fellow who has been watching us closely 
since our arrival follows us and in a language that 
puzzles us a little urges the necessity of his services 
as guide if we are to see the wonders of Land's 
End. We are glad enough to have his assistance 
and he leads us toward the broken cliffs, thrusting 
their rugged bulk far into the white-capped waves 
which come rolling landward. The sky and sea 
are still tinged with the hues of sunset and a faint 
glow touches the reddish rocks along the shores. It 
is too late for the inspiring effect shown in Mr. 
Moran's wonderful picture — had we been an hour 
earlier we might have beheld such a scene. Sub- 
dued purplish hues now prevail and a dark violet- 
colored sea thunders upon the coast. The wind is 
blowing — to our notion, a gale, though our old 
guide calls it a stiff breeze. 

"A 'igh wind, sir? Wot would you call a wind 
that piles up the waves so you can't see yonder 
lighthouse, that's two hundred and fifty feet tall? 
That's wot I'd call a 'igh wind, sir. And you'd 
be drenched to the skin in a minute standing where 
you are." 

We revise our ideas of high winds accordingly, 
but a stiff breeze is quite enough for us, especially 

337 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

when the old man urges us to come out upon what 
seems to us an exceedingly precarious perch — be- 
cause it is the "last rock in England.'* It stands 
almost sheer as a chimney with the sea foaming in 
indescribable fury some fifty or sixty feet below, 
and we have to decline, despite our guide's insist- 
ence that we are missing the chief sensation of 
Land's End. It was no doubt this identical spot 
which so impressed John Wesley, who visited 
Land's End in 1743, when he made his famous 
preaching tour in Cornwall. 

"It was an awful sight," he wrote. "But how 
will this melt away when God ariseth in judgment. 
The sea beneath doth indeed boil like a pot. One 
would indeed think the sea to be hoary! But 
though they swell, they cannot prevail. He shall 
set the bounds which they cannot pass!" But the 
great preacher did not say whether he stood on 
the "last rock" or not. 

We follow our guide in a strenuous scramble 
over the huge rocks to reach particular viewpoints, 
and, indeed, there are many awe-inspiring vistas of 
roaring ocean and rock-bound coast. Everywhere 
the sea attacks the shore in seeming fury, the great 
foam-crested waves sweeping against the jagged 
edges and breaking into a deluge of salt spray. 

"I've seen more than one ship go to pieces on 
838 



LAND'S END TO LONDON 

these rocks in winter storms," says our guide. "At 
the last wreck twenty-seven lives were lost. I 
recovered one body myself — a fine Spanish-looking 
gentleman six feet three inches tall," he goes on, 
with an evident relish for gruesome details. 

"The winter storms must be terrible, indeed," 
we venture. 

"You can't imagine how dreadful," he answers. 
"I've seen the sea so rough that for three months 
no boat could reach yonder lighthouse a mile away; 
but the keeper was lucky to have food and he kept 
his light shining all the time. It's a dreary, lonely 
country in winter time, but more people would 
come if they only knew what an awful sight it is 
to see the sea washing over these headlands." 

The same story is told — in more polished lan- 
guage — by a writer who spent the winter in Corn- 
wall and often visited Land's End on stormy nights : 
"The raving of the wind among the rocks; the dark 
ocean — exceedingly dark except when the flying 
clouds were broken and the stars shining in the 
clear spaces touched the big black incoming waves 
with a steely gray light; the jagged isolated rocks, 
on which so many ships have been shattered, rising 
in awful blackness from the spectral foam that ap- 
peared and vanished and appeared again; the mul- 
titudinous hoarse sounds of the sea, with throbbing 

339 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

and hollow booming noises in the caverns beneath 
— all together served to bring back something of 
the old vanished picture or vision of Bolerium as 
we first imagine it. The glare from the various 
lighthouses visible at this point only served to 
heighten the inexpressibly sombre effect, since shin- 
ing from a distance they make the gloomy world 
appear vaster. Down in the south, twenty-five 
miles away, the low clouds were lit up at short 
intervals by wide white flashes, as of sheet lightning, 
from the Lizard light, the most powerful of all 
lights, the reflection of which may be seen at a 
distance of sixty or seventy miles at sea. In front 
of the Land's End promontory, within five miles 
of it, was the angry red glare from the Longships 
tower, and further away to the left the white revolv- 
ing light of the Wolf lighthouse." 

Darkness has fallen and almost blotted out the 
wild surroundings save for the gleams which flash 
from the lighthouses across the somber waters. We 
wend our way back to our inn to rest as best we 
may in anything but comfortable beds after an un- 
usually strenuous day; we have traveled but one 
hundred and twenty miles since leaving Plymouth 
in the morning, but we have seen so much and had 
such varied experiences that we have a dim feeling 
of having come many times as far. 

340 



LAND'S END TO LONDON 

A glorious morning gives us the opportunity of 
seeing the wild coast at its best. A dark blue sea 
is breaking on the reddish brown rocks and chafing 
into white foam at their feet. We wander out on 
the headland to get a farewell glimpse of the scene 
— for there is little to tempt one to linger at Land's 
End; you may see it all at a sunset and sunrise. 
There is no historic ruin on the spot, and surely 
any thought of the hotel will hasten your departure 
if you ever had any intention of lingering. 

Sennan, a forlorn collection of stone huts about 
a mile from Land's End, is worth noting only as a 
type of the few tiny villages in the bit of barren 
country beyond Penzance and St. Ives. There is 
nothing to catch the artistic eye in these bleak little 
places; they lack the quaintness of Polperro or St. 
Ives and the coziness and color of the flower-em- 
bowered cottages of Somerset and Hampshire. The 
isolated farmhouses show the same characteristics 
and a description by a writer who lived in one of 
these during the winter months is full of interest: 

"Life on these small farms is incredibly rough. 
One may guess what it is like from the outward 
aspect of such places. Each, it is true, has its 
own individual character, but they are all pretty 
much alike in their dreary, naked and almost 
squalid appearance. Each, too, has its own an- 

341 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

cient Cornish name, some of these very fine or very 
pretty, but you are tempted to rename them in your 
own mind Desolation Farm, Dreary Farm, Stony 
Farm, Bleak Farm and Hungry Farm. The farm- 
house is a small, low place and invariably built of 
granite, with no garden or bush or flower about it. 
The one I stayed at was a couple of centuries old, 
but no one had ever thought of growing anything, 
even a marigold, to soften its bare, harsh aspect. 
The house itself could hardly be distinguished from 
the outhouses clustered round it. Several times on 
coming back to the house in a hurry and not exer- 
cising proper care I found I had made for the wrong 
door and got into the cow-house, or pig-house, or 
a shed of some sort, instead of into the human 
habitation. The cows and other animals were all 
about and you came through deep mud into the 
living-room. The pigs and fowls did not come 
in but were otherwise free to go where they liked. 
The rooms were very low; my hair, when I stood 
erect, just brushed the beams; but the living-room 
or kitchen was spacious for so small a house, and 
had the wide old open fireplace still common in this 
part of the country. Any other form of fireplace 
would not be suitable when the fuel consists of 
furze and turf." 

Such are the towns and farmhouses of this far- 
342 



LAND'S END TO LONDON 

thest Cornwall to-day — a country once prosperous 
on account of tin and copper mines which are all 
now abandoned. I doubt if there is a more poverty- 
stricken rural section in the Kingdom than Corn- 
wall. I noted in a paper edited by a socialist candi- 
date for the House of Commons a curious outburst 
over a donation made by the king to the poor of 
Cornwall, which was accompanied by a little hom- 
ily from His Majesty on the necessity of the bene- 
ficiaries helping themselves. The article is so sig- 
nificant in the light it throws on certain social con- 
ditions and as illustrating a greater degree of free- 
dom of speech than is generally supposed to exist 
in England that I feel it worth quoting: 

"Although we do not doubt the King's longing 
to help all his people, we must be forgiven if we 
refuse to be impressed by his apparent intensity 
of feeling. Not that we blame the King. In order 
to feel decently about the poor, one must have 
'had some,' so to speak. And we can hardly 
imagine that King George knows much concerning 
the objects of his sympathy, when we consider the 
annual financial circumstances of his own compact 
little family. In the year that is ending they will 
have drawn between them the helpful pittance of 
six hundred thirty-four thousand pounds. This is 
exclusive of the income of the Prince of Wales, 

343 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

derived from the revenues of the Duchy of Corn- 
wall. And even if this sum has been badly drained 
by Yuletide beneficence (as faintly threatened in 
the Church Army donation) the New Year will 
bring sure replenishment of the royal purse. 

"We should not have felt called upon to men- 
tion these little details were it not for the offensive 
phrase — 'may they show their gratitude by industry 
and vigorous efforts to help themselves.' How can 
the poor devils who live in the foetid hovels which 
dot the Duchy of Cornwall 'help themselves?' 
Out of their shameful earnings — when they have 
any earnings — they must first pay toll to the bloated 
rent-roll of the King's infant son. Out of their 
constant penury they must help to provide an extrav- 
agant Civil List, to enable their Monarch to lec- 
ture on self-help at the end of a donation of twenty- 
five pounds. Help themselves? Show their grati- 
tude? How can they help themselves when the 
earth was stolen from them before their birth, when 
their tools of production are owned and 
controlled by a group of moneyed parasites, 
when their laws are made and administered 
by the class which lives on their labours 
and fattens on their helplessness? Show their 
gratitude? Heaven have mercy upon us! 
What have they to be grateful for — these squalid, 

344 



LAND'S END TO LONDON 

dependent, but always necessary outcasts of our 
civilization?" 

I fear this is pretty much of a digression, though 
I think an interesting one. Not all of Cornwall 
shows evidence of such poverty — the country stead- 
ily improves as we hasten to the fine old town of 
Truro and there is much good country beyond. 
Though we have come but thirty-six miles from 
Land's End, the indisposition of one of our party 
makes it advisable to pause in the old Cornish cap- 
ital, where we may be sure of comfortable quarters 
at the Red Lion. 

We find this a commodious, substantial struc- 
ture, built about two and a half centuries ago, with 
a fine entrance hall from which a black-oak stair- 
way leads to the upper floors. Its accommodations 
and service seem to average with the best provin- 
cial hotels in towns the size of Truro, and, alto- 
gether, the Red Lion is perhaps as good a place 
to spend a day of enforced idleness as one is likely 
to come across. 

The town itself has little enough to interest the 
stranger, as I found in wandering about for some 
hours. Even the splendid cathedral lacks antiquity 
and historic association, for it still wants a few fin- 
ishing touches. It has been about thirty years in 
building and more than a million dollars has been 

345 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

expended in the work. The exterior conforms to 
the best early English traditions, the most striking 
feature being the three splendid towers — the cen- 
tral one rising to a height of two hundred and fifty 
feet. The interior is somewhat glaring and bare, 
owing largely to the absence of stained-glass win- 
dows, of which there are only a few. A portion 
of the old parish church is included in the building 
and contains a few ancient monuments of little im- 
portance. On the whole, Truro Cathedral is a 
fine example of modern church architecture and 
proves that the art is not a lost one by any 
means. I was fortunate in happening to be inside 
during an organ rehearsal and more majestic and 
inspiring music I never heard than the solemn melo- 
dies which filled the vast vacant building. 

We are ready for the road after a day's sojourn 
in Truro, and depart in a steady rain which con- 
tinues until nightfall. Our road — which we have 
traversed before — by way of St. Columb Major and 
Camelford to Launceston, is hilly and heavy and in 
the pouring rain we make only slow progress. The 
gray mist envelops the landscape; but it matters 
little, for the greater part of our road runs between 
the dirt fences I have described heretofore, which 
shut out much of the country, even on fine days. 
St. Columb and Camelford are dreary, angular little 

346 



LAND'S END TO LONDON 

towns stretching closely along the highroad, quite 
unattractive in fine weather and under present con- 
ditions positively ugly. Camelford, some say, is 
the Camelot of the Arthurian romances, but surely 
no vestige of romance lingers about it to-day. From 
here we make a wild dash across the moor to 
Launceston — the rain is falling more heavily and 
the wind blowing a gale. Our meter seldom 
registers under forty miles, a pace that lands us 
quickly at the door of the White Hart; we are 
damp and cold and the old inn seems a timely 
haven, indeed. A change of raiment and warm 
luncheon makes us feel more at peace with the 
world, but we do not muster courage to venture 
out in the storm again. Perhaps if we could have 
foreseen that the following day would be no better, 
we should have resumed our journey. Indeed, the 
next morning the storm that drove the fleet away from 
Penzance was in full sway over Cornwall and a 
dreary, rain-swept country it was. The road north- 
ward to Holsworthy and Great Torrington is little 
else but a narrow and hilly lane, though as dreary a 
section as one will find in Cornwall or Devon, and 
here, also, the hedges intercept our view much of 
the way. The towns, too, are quite devoid of 
interest save the fine Perpendicular church which 
towers over Holsworthy. Bideford, famous in 

347 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

Kingsley's "Westward Ho!" and Barnstaple, with 
its potteries which produce the cheap but not inartis- 
tic "Barum ware," we have visited before and both 
have much worth seeing. We are now out of the 
zone of the storm and the weather is more tolerable ; 
we have really been suffering from the cold in mid- 
summer — not an uncommon thing in Britain. 

There are two first-class old inns at Taunton — 
on different occasions people of the town had 
assured us that each was the best — and though 
Baedeker gives the London the preference and 
honors it with the much coveted star, we thought 
the Castle equally good. It is a gray-stone, ivy- 
covered building near the castle and if our luncheon 
may be taken as an index, its service is all that 
can be desired. 

A little way out of Taunton we notice a monu- 
ment a short distance from the roadside and easily 
identify it from pictures which we have seen as 
the memorial erected to commemorate the victory 
of King Alfred over the Danes at Sedgemoor. In 
olden times this whole section was a vast marsh in 
which was the Isle of Athelney, surrounded by an 
almost impenetrable morass. The king and a band 
of faithful followers built a causeway to the island, 
which served as a retreat while marshalling sufficient 
force to cope with the invaders. The rally of the 

348 



LAND'S END TO LONDON 

Saxons around the intrepid king finally resulted in 
a signal victory, which broke the Danish power 
in England. Alfred built an abbey near the spot 
as a mark of pious gratitude for his success, but 
scarcely a trace remains of the structure to-day. In 
the same vicinity is supposed to have occurred the 
famous incident of King Alfred and the cakes, 
which he allowed to burn while watching them. 
Alfred was then in hiding, disguised as a farm 
laborer, and received a severe berating from the 
angry housewife for his carelessness. 

But Sedgemoor is historic in a double sense, for 
here the conflict occurred between the forces of 
James II. and the ill-fated Duke of Monmouth, to 
which we have previously referred. The rebels 
planned a night attack on the royal army, and, 
knowing that carelessness and debauchery would 
prevail in the king's camp on Sunday, they chose 
that day for the assault. The accidental discharge 
of a pistol gave warning of the approach of the 
assailants and they had the farther misfortune to 
be hopelessly entangled in the deep drainage ditches 
which then (as now) intersected the valley. The 
result was a disastrous defeat for the Duke's follow- 
ers, of whom a thousand were slain. Monmouth 
himself was discovered by his enemies after two 
days' search, hiding in a ditch, and was duly exe- 

349 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

cuted in London Tower. Some five hundred of 
his followers — mostly ignorant peasants — were 
hanged at Taunton and Dorchester by orders of 
the infamous Jeffreys. This battle, which took 
place on Sunday, July 5, 1585, was the last of 
any consequence to be fought on English soil. The 
historic field to-day is green and prosperous-looking 
and the only indication that it was once a marshy 
fen is the ditches which drain its surplus waters. 

We pass Glastonbury and Wells, which might 
well detain us had we not visited them previously, 
for in all England there are few towns richer in tra- 
dition and history than the former; and the latter's 
cathedral no well-informed traveler would wish to 
miss. Bath, we know from several previous so- 
journs, affords an unequalled stopping-place for the 
night and we soon renew acquaintance at the Em- 
pire Hotel, where we are now fairly well known. 
Our odometer shows an unusually long day's run, 
much of which was under trying conditions of road 
and weather. This hotel belongs to a syndicate 
which owiis several others, in London and at var- 
ious resorts throughout the country. A guest who 
enters into a contract may stay the year round at 
these hotels for a surprisingly low figure, going from 
one to the other according to his pleasure — to Folke- 
stone, for instance, if he wishes the seaside, or to 

850 



LAND'S END TO LONDON 

London if he inclines towards the metropolis. 
Many English people of leisure avail themselves of 
this plan, which, it would seem, has its advantages 
in somewhat relieving the monotony of life in a 
single hotel. 

Though we have been in Bath several times, 
something has always interfered with our plan to 
visit the abbey church find we resolve to make 
amends before we set out Londonward. There 
are few statelier church edifices in the island— -the 
"Lantern of England," as the guide-books style it, 
on account of its magnificent windows. These are 
mainly modern and prove that the art of making 
stained glass is far from lost, as has sometimes been 
insisted. So predominating are the windows, in 
fact, that one writer declares, "It is the beauty of 
a flower a little overblown, though it has its charms 
just the same.'* The most remarkable of all is the 
great western group of seven splendid windows 
illustrating biblical subjects in wonderfully harmon- 
ious colors. As may be imagined, the interior is 
unusually well lighted, though the soft color tones 
prevent any garish effect. The intricate tracery of 
the fine fan vaulted ceiling is clearly brought out 
and also the delicate carving on the screen — a mod- 
ern restoration, by the way. The monuments are 
tasteless and, in the main, of little importance, though 

351 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

our attention is naturally arrested by a memorial 
to "William Bingham, Senator of the United States 
of America," who died at Bath in 1804. 

The exterior of the abbey — they tell us — has 
many architectural defects, though these are not 
apparent to the layman. The walls are supported 
by flying buttresses and the west front shows cur- 
ious sculptures representing the angels upon Jacob's 
ladder. The tower, one hundred and sixty-five 
feet in height, is a pure example of English Perpen- 
dicular and is rather peculiar in that it is oblong 
rather than square. 

As we leave the town we cannot but admire its 
cleanliness and beautiful location. It skirts both 
banks of the River Avon and is surrounded by an 
amphitheater of wooded hills. To our notion it is 
the finest of inland English resort towns and certainly 
none has a more varied past, nor has any other 
figured so extensively in literature. It is about one 
hundred miles from London by road, and is a 
favorite goal for the motorist from that city. 

The road to London is a fine broad highway 
leading through Marlborough and Reading. It 
proves a splendid farewell run to our third long mo- 
tor tour through Britain; we have covered in all 
nearly twenty thousand miles of highways and by- 
ways during varying weather. If there has been 

852 



LAND'S END TO LONDON 

much sunshine, there have also been weeks of rain 
and many lowering gloomy days. There is scarce 
an historic shrine of importance in the Kingdom 
that has escaped us and we have visited hundreds 
of odd corners not even mentioned in the guide- 
books. And, best of all, we have come to know 
the people and have gained considerable familiarity 
with their institutions, which has not lessened our 
respect and admiration for the Motherland. Indeed, 
I feel that our experience sufficiently warrants a 
chapter on the English at home — as we saw them 
— and I make no apology for concluding this book 
with such. It is not free from criticism, I 
know, but could an honest observer write more fav- 
orably of our own country — if conditions were such 
that he might tour our populous states as thor- 
oughly as we have done Britain? 

Our last day on the road fulfills the ideal of 
English midsummer; the storm has passed, leaving 
the country fresh and bright; green fields alternate 
with the waving gold of the ripening harvest, and 
here and there we pass an old village or a solitary 
cottage by the roadside — all typical of the rural 
England we have come to love so much. We 
drive leisurely over the fine road and linger an hour 
or two in Marlborough after luncheon at the Ailes- 
bury Arms, whose excellence we have proven on 

353 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

previous occasions. We find an antique-shop here 
with a store of old silver that rivals our discovery 
in Largo, and the prices asked are no higher. 

From Reading we follow the Thames River 
road, which for some miles skirts the very shore 
of the historic stream and passes within a distant 
view of the towers of Windsor, rising in all their 
romantic majesty against the sunset sky. From 
Windsor we follow the familiar road to the heart 
of the teeming metropolis and our third long motor 
pilgrimage in Summer Britain is at its close. 



354 



XX 

THE ENGLISH AND THEIR INSTITUTIONS 

One who has spent many months in the United 
Kingdom, traveling about twenty thousand miles 
by motor and considerably by train, and who has 
met and conversed with the common people of 
every section of the country in the most retired nooks 
and in metropolitan cities, may, I hope without un- 
due assumption, venture a few remarks on the Eng- 
lish people and their institutions. One would be a 
dull observer indeed if he did not, with the oppor- 
tunities which we had, see and learn many things 
concerning present-day Britain. 

It is the custom of some American writers, even 
of recent date, to allege that a general dislike of 
Americans exists in the Kingdom; and it would not 
be very strange if this should be true, considering 
the manner in which many Americans conduct 
themselves while abroad. Our own experience was 
that such an idea is not well founded. In all our 
wanderings we saw no evidence whatever of such 
dislike. In England everyone knows an American 
at sight and had there been the slightest unfriendli- 

355 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

ness towards Americans as a class, it would cer- 
tainly have been apparent to us during such a tour 
as our own. I think many incidents cited in this 
as well as in my former books go to prove that the 
reverse is true, but these incidents are only a frac- 
tion of what I might have given. That a certain 
uncongeniality, due to a difference in temperament 
and lack of mutual understanding, exists between 
the average American and the average Englishman, 
we may freely admit, but it would be wrong to 
view this as personal dislike of each other. I have 
no doubt that even this barrier will disappear in 
time, just as the dislike and jealousy which really 
did exist a quarter of a century ago have disappeared. 
Who could now conceive of the situation that moved 
Nathaniel Hawthorne to write in "Our Old Home" 
fifty years ago: 

"An American is not apt to love the English 
people, on whatever length of acquaintance. I 
fancy they would value our regard and even recip- 
rocate it in their ungracious way if we could give 
it to them, in spite of all rebuffs; but they are beset 
by a curious and inevitable infelicity which compels 
them, as it were, to keep up what they consider a 
wholesome feeling of bitterness between themselves 
and all other nations, especially Americans." 

Of our own experience, at least, we may speak 
356 



THE ENGLISH AND THEIR INSTITUTIONS 

with authority. As a result of our several sojourns 
in Britain and extensive journeyings in every part 
of the Kingdom, we came to have only the kindest 
regard for the people and greater appreciation of 
their apparent good will. As we became better in- 
formed we were only the more interested in the 
history and traditions of the Motherland, and we 
almost came to feel something of the pride and satis- 
faction that must fill the breast of the patriotic 
Englishman himself. Nothing will serve more to 
impress on one the close connection between the 
two countries than the common literature which 
one finds everywhere in both; and you will pass 
scarce a town or village on all the highways and by- 
ways of the Old Country that has not its namesake 
in America. 

Our impressions as to the fairness and honesty of 
the English people generally were most favorable. 
First of all, our dealings with hotels were perhaps 
the most numerous of our business transactions. 
Never to my recollection did we inquire in advance 
the price of accommodations, and I recall scarcely 
a single instance where we had reason to believe 
this had been taken advantage of. This was indeed 
in striking contrast to our experience with innkeepers 
on the Continent. For an American in possession 
of a motor to take up quarters in the average French 

357 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

or German hotel without close bargaining and an 
exact understanding as to charges would soon mean 
financial ruin to the tourist of moderate means. We 
could give almost as good report of the many Eng- 
lish shopkeepers with whom we dealt — there was 
no evidence of any attempt to overcharge us on 
account of being tourists. Nor did I ever have a 
cab or carriage-driver try to exact more than was 
coming to him — though of course a small extra fee 
is always expected — certainly a contrast with New 
York City, for instance, where it is always hazard- 
ous to get into a cab without an iron-clad agree- 
ment with the driver. Perhaps the credit for this 
state of affairs may be due not so much to the 
honesty of the English Jehus as to a public senti- 
ment which will not tolerate robbery. Nor should 
I fail to mention that in twenty thousand miles of 
touring our car was left unguarded hundreds of 
times with much movable property in it, and 
during our whole journey we never lost the value 
of a farthing from theft. 

It is no new thing to say that the average English- 
man is insular — but this became much more to us 
than mere hearsay before we left the country. The 
vision of few of the people extends beyond the 
Island, and we might almost say, beyond an im- 
mediate neighborhood. There is a great disinclina- 

858 



THE ENGLISH AND THEIR INSTITUTIONS 

tion to get out of an established groove; outside of 
certain classes there appears to be little ambition to 
travel. I know of one intelligent young man of 
thirty who had never seen salt water — nowhere in 
England more than a hundred miles distant. I was 
told that a journey from a country town in Scotland 
or North England to London is an event in a life- 
time with almost any one of the natives. The world 
beyond the confines of England is vague indeed; 
Germany, the universal bugbear, is best known and 
cordially hated, but of America only the haziest 
notions prevail. Not one in a thousand has any 
conception of our distances and excepting possibly 
a dozen cities, one town in America is quite as un- 
known as another. 

Akin to this insularity is the lack of enterprise 
and adaptability everywhere noticeable — a clinging 
to outworn customs and methods. Since the Eng- 
lish vision does not extend to the outer world, but 
little seems to be expected or even desired of it. 
There is not the constant desire for improvement, 
and the eager seeking after some way to do things 
quicker and better — so characteristic of America — 
is usually wanting. An American manufacturer 
will discard even new machinery if something more 
efficient comes out, but an Englishman only thinks 
of making his present machine last to the very limit 

359 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

of endurance. A friend told me of a relative of his 
who boasted that in his mill a steam engine had been 
running fifty years; it never occurred to the mill- 
owner that the old engine almost yearly ate up the 
cost of a new one on account of inefficiency and 
wasted fuel. 

Often in garages where I took my car to have 
it cleaned and oiled, I could not help noting the in- 
efficiency of the workmen. At times I had the 
engine crank case removed and cleaned and this 
one little thing gave a painful insight into the methods 
of the English workman. Nothing could be simpler 
than removing and replacing the dust shield under 
the engine — simply snapping six spring catches out 
of and into position. Yet I have seen one or even 
two men crawl around under the car for a half 
hour or more in performing this simple operation. 
In replacing the oil reservoir and pump I found that 
nothing would take the place of personal supervis- 
ion — a cotter pin, gasket or what not would surely 
be left out to give further trouble. Repairing an 
American car in a provincial town would be a seri- 
ous job unless the owner or his driver were able to 
oversee and direct the work. 

As I have stated, we left England with decidedly 
favorable impressions of the country and people; so 
much so that I doubt not many of our fellow-coun- 

360 



THE ENGLISH AND THEIR INSTITUTIONS 

trymen would think us unduly prejudiced. But all 
this did not blind us to the fact that England in 
many regards is in a distinctly bad way and that 
a thorough awakening must come if she is to avoid 
sure decadence. Indeed, there are many, chief 
among them distinguished Englishmen and colonials, 
who aver that such decadence has already begun, 
but there is much difference of opinion as to its 
cause and as to what may best check its progress. 

If I were to give my own humble opinion as to 
the chief disadvantage from which the country suf- 
fers and the most depressing influence on national 
character, I should place feudalism first of all and 
by this I mean the system of inherited titles, offices 
and entailed estates. I know that the government of 
the Kingdom is regarded as one of great efficiency 
and stability, and I think justly so ; and this is often 
urged by apologists for the feudal system. But the 
Englishman is slow to learn that just as stable and 
quite as efficient government may be had without 
the handicap of outworn medievalism. That the 
present system seems to work well in England is 
not due to any inherent merit it may possess, but to 
the homogeneity of the nation, and to a universal 
spirit of law-abiding that would insure success for 
almost any respectable type of government. It does 

not work well in Ireland and never has; and it has 

361 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

substantially been abandoned in the self-governing 
colonies. 

It seems to me, however, that the question as to 
how the feudal system works in government is of 
little consequence as compared with its ultimate 
effect on national character under modern condi- 
tions; for it is all out of accord with the spirit of 
modern progress, and if it ever served a useful pur- 
pose, it has well outlived it. One may justly claim 
that the king and the nobility have really little to 
do with governing, especially since the abolition of 
the veto of the House of Lords; that the will of 
the people finds expression in England quite as 
strongly as anywhere; but even if we admit this, 
I cannot see that it offers any argument in favor of 
feudalism. No one can make a tour of England 
such as ours and not observe the spirit of servility 
among the common people due to the inbred rever- 
ence for a title. Indeed, there is no feeling in Eng- 
land that all men are born free and equal, or that 
one man is quite as good as another so long as he 
behaves himself. A mere title, Sir, Duke, Earl, 
Lord or what-not, creates at once a different order 
of being and the toadyism to such titular distinctions 
is plainly noticeable everywhere. An earl or a duke 
is at our hotel; he may be a bankrupt, inconse- 
quential fellow, it is true; he may not have a single 

362 



THE ENGLISH AND THEIR INSTITUTIONS 

personal trait to command respect and he may not 
be engaged in any useful industry. But there is 
much salaaming and everyone about the place as- 
sumes an awe-stricken, menial attitude, merely be- 
cause the gentleman has the prefix Earl or Duke 
— there can be no other reason. Is it strange that 
such a spirit causes the common people to lose self- 
reliance and yield up their ambition to be anything 
more than their fathers before them? A propor- 
tion of the nobility may be composed of men of 
character and ability, fitted to occupy positions of 
authority and public responsibility and the present 
king may be all that a king should be; but the sys- 
tem is wrong and its effect on English character can 
hardly fail to have an untoward influence on the 
nation. 

I find this view borne out in a guarded way in 
a book recently published by a prominent colonial 
official who spent some time in England. He insists 
that the lack of patriotism, which one can hardly 
fail to observe, is due to the present social system. 
He declares that the common people take little in- 
terest in national affairs and make no study of prob<* 
lems confronting the government. They expect the 
so-called "upper classes" to do the governing for 
them; there is no need to concern themselves over 

363 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

matters that must be settled by a House of Lords 
in whose choosing they can have no voice. 

The recruits to the nobility now come almost 
exclusively from the wealthy class; we often have 
flung in our faces in England the taunt that there 
is an aristocracy of wealth in America, and that the 
pursuit of the Almighty Dollar is the all-prevailing 
passion. It may be just, in the same general way 
that I intend these remarks to apply to England, but 
we can at least retort that our oil, beef, mining and 
railway magnates cannot purchase a title and found 
a "family," thus becoming in the public eye a su- 
perior class of beings and established as our hered- 
itary rulers. A wealthy brewer may not become 
"my lord" for a consideration, in any event. 

A recent American writer makes the curious apol- 
ogy for the House of Lords as a legislative body 
that it affords the English people the services of the 
most successful moneyed men in framing laws and 
that the sons of such men are pretty sure to be 
practical, well-trained fellows themselves. He also 
argues that the families usually die out in a few 
generations, thus introducing new blood continually 
and forming, in his estimation, a most capable legis- 
lative body. The preposterous nature of such 
statements can best be shown by trying to apply 
such a system to the United States Senate. If our 

364 



THE ENGLISH AND THEIR INSTITUTIONS 

senators, for instance, were hereditary lords, re- 
cruited from the oil, beef, brewing, mining or rail- 
way magnates aforementioned, what might the 
American people expect from them? We complain 
vigorously if any senator is shown to be influenced 
by such interests and more than one legislator has 
found out to his grief that such a connection will 
not be tolerated. Suppose we had a system that 
put the principals themselves in a permanent legis- 
lative body and invested them with all the glamour 
of "his grace" or "my lord?" Quite unthinkable 
— and yet such is the system in Britain. 

And these self-sacrificing hereditary legislators are 
no fonder of bearing the real burdens of the coun- 
try than our own plutocrats are. There is much 
complaint in England that in the ranks of the nobil- 
ity are to be found the most flagrant tax dodgers 
in the Kingdom. Nor does this complaint lack for 
vigorous utterance — a most hopeful sign of the 
times, to my notion. But recently a London paper 
exploited the case of the Marquis of Bute, owner of 
Cardiff Castle — and most of Cardiff, for that matter 
— who returned his personal tax at less than a thou- 
sand pounds, and that included Cardiff Castle and 
grounds, which represent literally millions! Yet no 
man in the Kingdom is better able to afford pay- 
ment of his just tax than this nobleman. To show 

365 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

the gross injustice of his tax, a comparison was made 
of the castle with a humble tailor shop in Cardiff, 
ninety by one hundred and twenty feet, which was 
taxed at a higher figure! The newspaper in ques- 
tion also declared that this case was typical of tax- 
dodging lords all over the country. 

That there is a strong under-current against the 
feudal system cannot be doubted; we found it 
everywhere, though at times but half expressed and 
again only to be inferred, but it exists none the less. 
Indeed, more recent developments have shown the 
extent of such sentiment in the overthrow of the 
veto power of the Lords. This is a great step in 
advance, though England would be infinitely the 
gainer if the feudal system were abolished and not 
merely modified. This antagonism does not ex- 
tend to royalty — that institution escapes through the 
popularity of the present king and queen. But the 
time may come when a weak and unpopular king 
will turn public sentiment against the very keystone 
of feudalism and the whole structure is likely to 
fall. When one recollects the furore that prevailed 
in England when the former king as Prince of Wales 
was mixed up with the Baccarat scandals, it is easy 
to see how much royalty owes its existence to good 
behavior. At that time doubt was freely expressed 
as to whether the prince would ever be king of Eng- 

366 



THE ENGLISH AND THEIR INSTITUTIONS 

land, but he lived it all down by his subsequent 
good record. I had many intelligent men admit 
that "your system of government is right; we shall 
come to it some time," or words to that effect, and 
we heard many ill-concealed flings at the nobility. 
"We are all the property of the nobility," said one 
intelligent young shopman of whom in the course 
of conversation we inquired if he owned his home. 
"No one has any chance to own anything or be 
anything in England." And in a prayer-book at 
Stratford Church we found the petition "for the 
nobility" erased with heavy pencil lines. 

I give these as typical of many similar instances, 
but I have no space in this book for discussion of 
the impressions I record. A volume would be re- 
quired should I attempt this. I can only set down 
these random notes without elaborate argument. 
And yet, what could be more convincing that the 
social system of England is wrong than the hope- 
lessness we found everywhere and the refrain that 
we heard oftener than any other, "A common man 
has no chance in England?" If he is not fortunate 
or a genius, there is nothing for him. He must 
either succumb to inevitable mediocrity and poverty 
or get away to some new country to gain the oppor- 
tunity of competence and social promotion in any 
degree. 

367 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

It is to the feudal system that can be charged 
the astonishing state of affairs in England that makes 
a gentleman of a person with no occupation — a 
loafer, we would style him in America — and so- 
cially degrades the useful citizen engaged in trade. 
On this particular phase I will not pass my own 
comment, but quote from a book, "Wake Up, 
England," by P. A. Vaile, Premier of New Zea- 
land, lately issued by a London publisher: 

"There is perhaps nothing in English life so dis- 
gusting to a man who has not the scales upon his 
eyes as the loathsome snobbery of those who pro- 
fess to despise a man because his income is derived 
from a trade or business. It is wholly inexcusable 
and contemptible. Trade, instead of being consid- 
ered honourable and dignified, is, in the eyes of 
every snob, a degradation. Unfortunately, snobs in 
England are not scarce. 

"The tradesman is himself in a great measure 
to blame for this, for he accepts humbly as his due 
the contempt that is meted out to him. Most of 
those who so freely despise the poor necessary man 
of trade, have a portion of their savings, when they 
are lucky enough to have any, invested in some large 
millinery or pork-butcher's business that has been 
floated into a limited liability company — yet to them 

368 



THE ENGLISH AND THEIR INSTITUTIONS 

the man who earns their dividends is absolutely 
outside the pale. 

"If there is any nation that I know that is hope- 
lessly bourgeois, it is England. Why can we not 
be manly enough to recognize the fact, to acknowl- 
edge and freely admit to ourselves that we are a 
nation of very commonplace individuals, mostly 
shopkeepers, that it is the shopkeepers who have 
made the nation what she is, and that commerce is 
an occupation worthy of any gentleman instead of 
being a calling which merits the contempt of the 
idle, the rich and the foolish?" 

If such a condition prevails in England, it can 
surely be chargeable to nothing else than a system 
which places the stamp of superiority on the idler 
and puts him in a position where he can assume a 
patronizing air towards those who are the back- 
bone and mainstay of the nation. 

Hand in hand with outworn feudalism goes the 
established church, of which it is really a part and 
parcel. A state religion of which a none too re- 
ligious king may be the head, and whose control 
may fall into the hands of politicians who are fre- 
quently without the first qualification of churchmen, 
is an incongruity at best. If America has proven 
anything, she has demonstrated that absolute separa- 
tion is best for both church and state; that true 

369 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

religious freedom and amity can best be conserved 
by it. But in England the established church is a 
constant bone of contention; its supercilious, holier- 
than-thou attitude toward the other churches is the 
cause of much heart-burning and friction. It has 
the sanction of the state, the social rank, the great 
church buildings and the traditions, and forces other 
Christian denominations into the attitude of the 
poor and rather shabby relation of a wealthy aristo- 
crat — the wealth in this case not measured merely 
in money. Class distinction, the curse of England 
everywhere, is only fomented by the attitude of the 
established church. In religious matters it is not 
human nature to concede to anyone else superiority, 
and not until the Church of England places itself 
on common ground with its contemporaries, will 
true fraternity among the different denominations be 
possible in England as it is rapidly becoming in 
America. I remember a kindly old gentleman who 
showed us much courtesy in the English Boston in 
pointing out to us the places of interest, but who 
did not fall in with our enthusiasm over the great 
church. 

"Ah, yes," he said. "It once belonged to Rome, 
who grew arrogant and oppressive — and fell; it 
now belongs to a church that is just as arrogant and 
would be as much of an oppressor if she dared — 

370 



THE ENGLISH AND THEIR INSTITUTIONS 

and her downfall is just as sure." And the enthus- 
iasm with which he pointed out the plain Wesleyan 
chapel betrayed his own predilections. 

That the educational system of England is faulty 
and inefficient we have the testimony of many lead- 
ing English educators themselves. The constant 
interference of the Church of England and the 
Catholics with the public schools is greatly respon- 
sible for the chaos of the educational situation of the 
country. Conditions in England are such that a 
most excellent public school system might easily be 
maintained. The density of population and the 
perfect roads would make every rural school easily 
accessible, and there would be distinct advantages 
not enjoyed by many American communities which 
have far better schools. But church jealousy, hide- 
bound tradition, and the almost universal inefficiency 
of English school-teachers, are obstacles hard to 
overcome. I cannot discuss so great a question in 
the limits of a short chapter, but the testimony of 
the most representative English educators may be 
found in the report of the commission which visited 
American schools under the guidance of Mr. Alfred 
Mosely. 

That England, generally speaking, is better and 
more efficiently governed than the United States is 
no proof that its system is as good as our own, or 

371 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

that its possibilities equal ours. It is rather due to 
the homogeneity of the masses and to a more pre- 
valent respect for law and authority among the peo- 
ple. Justice is surer and swifter when the criminal's 
offense is once proven in the courts; but the many 
technicalities and the positive nature of proof re- 
quired enables a large number of swindlers and ras- 
cals to keep at large. Dead-beats will evade debts, 
irresponsible tenants refuse payment of rents for in- 
definite periods, and petty swindlers go quite free 
— all of whom would be given short shrift in 
America — simply because it is a dangerous matter 
to risk infringing the "rights of the subject" and 
thus lay oneself liable to heavy damages should 
charges fail of proof. 

The excellence of the British police system is pro- 
verbial; in efficiency and honesty of administration 
it has no parallel in America. Bribery and corrup- 
tion among policemen are unknown, as Americans 
sometimes learn to their grief — illustrated by the 
instance of a rich New Yorker who offered a gold 
coin to an officer who had held up his motor for 
speeding. The offender was fined, not only for 
speeding, but much more heavily for attempted 
bribery — as it was justly regarded by the court. 
From the hundreds of policemen of whom we made 
inquiries — often very stupid, no doubt, to the offi- 

372 



THE ENGLISH AND THEIR INSTITUTIONS 

cer — we never had an answer with the slightest 
trace of ill nature or impatience. Frequently the 
officer gave us much assistance in a friendly way and 
information as to places of interest. The British 
policeman has no swagger or ostentation about him; 
he carries no weapon — not even the club so indis- 
pensible in the States — yet he will control the riot- 
ous crowds more effectively than his American 
brother; but we should remember that even a riot- 
ous English mob has more respect for law than one 
on our side. He appears to appreciate thoroughly 
the value of his position to him personally and his 
dignity as a conserver of law and order, which he 
represents rather than some ward politician or 
saloon-keeper. 

And, speaking of saloons — public houses, they 
call them in Britain — the drink evil averages worse 
than in the United States. Three quarters of a 
billion dollars go directly every year for spirituous 
liquors and no statistics could show the indirect cost 
in pauperism, suffering and crime, to say nothing of 
the deleterious effect on the health of ajarge portion 
of the people. In America liquor in the country 
hotel is an exception, constantly becoming rarer; in 
England it is the universal rule. Every hotel is quite 
as much a saloon, in our vernacular, as a house of 
entertainment for travelers. Women with children 

373 



ODD CORNERS ( OF BRITAIN 

in their arms frequent the low-grade drink houses 
and women as bar-maids serve the liquors. More 
than once I had to exercise great caution on account 
of reeling drunken men on the streets of the smaller 
towns; but we had only hearsay for it that in the 
slums of Liverpool and London one may find hun- 
dreds of women dead drunk. There was much in- 
dignation over an insinuation made in parliament 
against the character of the bar-maids, but it is hard 
to see how many of these women, surrounded by 
the influences forced upon them by their vocation, 
can lead a decent life for any length of time. 

Surely the drink evil in Great Britain and Ireland 
is a serious one and deserves far more active meas- 
ures than are being taken against it. That sentiment 
is slowly awakening is shown by the fight made for 
the "licensing bill" which proposed a step, though 
a distant one, towards repression of the traffic. That 
the almost world-wide movement against the liquor 
business will make headway in England is reasonably 
certain and those who have her welfare at heart will 
earnestly hope that its progress may be rapid. 

But in this connection I wish to emphasize that 
my observations on the liquor question in Britain 
are broadly general; there are millions of people in 
the Kingdom to whom they do not apply, and there 
are whole sections which should be excepted had I 

374 



THE ENGLISH AND THEIR INSTITUTIONS 

space to particularize. North Wales, for instance, 
has a population that for sobriety and general free- 
dom from the evils of drink will rival any section of 
similar population anywhere. The mining towns 
of Southern Wales, however, are quite the reverse 
in this particular. 

While Wales is a loyal and patriotic part of the 
British Empire, there are many ways in which the 
people are quite distinct and peculiar as compared 
with native Englishmen. Perhaps the most notable 
point of difference is consistent opposition to the 
established church, which has little support in 
Wales and has been practically forced upon the 
Welsh people by the British government. Only 
recently a measure for disestablishment has been 
entertained in parliament and it is sure to come 
sooner or later. 

For the people of Northern Wales we came to 
have the highest respect and even regard. They 
were universally kind and courteous and their solici- 
tude for the stranger within their gates seemed to 
be more than a mere desire to get his money. There 
is no place in the Kingdom where one may find 
good accommodations cheaper, barring a half dozen 
notable resorts in the height of the season. Added 
to this, the beauty of the country and its romantic 
and historic interest make a combination of at- 

375 



ODD CORNERS OF BRITAIN 

tractions that would long detain one whose time 
permitted. 

The foregoing observations about the Welsh are 
applicable in a greater or less degree to many sec- 
tions of England and to most of rural Scotland, save 
that in the latter country hotel expenses will average 
higher. 

A word on hotels generally may not come amiss 
from one whose experience has dealt with several 
hundreds of them of all classes and degrees, from 
the country inn to the pretentious resort hotel. It 
was our practice to seek out the best in every case, 
since we hardly enjoyed hotel life even under the 
most favorable conditions; but it was largely saved 
from monotony by the traditions which have gath- 
ered about almost every ancient inn in the Kingdom. 
One would miss much if he did not visit the old 
inns such as the Feathers in Ludlow, the Lygon 
Arms in Broadway, the Great White Horse in 
Ipswich, the King's Head in Coventry — but I could 
fill pages with names alone; I would as soon think 
of missing a historic castle or a cathedral as some 
of the inns. It is this sentiment that has led me to 
give the rather extended individual mention ac- 
corded in some cases. 

As a whole, the British hotels are comfortable 
and well conducted. Outside of London one will 

376 



THE ENGLISH AND THEIR INSTITUTIONS 

find the menus rather restricted and usually quite 
heavy and substantial from an American point of 
view. Special dishes are not easily obtained in the 
country inns and request for them is not at all en- 
thusiastically received. Eggs and bacon — with the 
latter very nearly answering the specification of ham 
in America — with fish, usually sole or plaice, and 
tea or rather bad coffee, is the standard breakfast. 
Fruit cannot usually be had even in season without 
prearrangement the evening before, and then only 
at exorbitant prices. Strawberries, for instance — 
there are none finer than the English in season — 
may be selling for sixpence a quart, but you will pay 
half a crown extra for a lesser quantity served with 
your breakfast. An assortment of cold meats, 
usually displayed on the sideboard, forms the basis 
for luncheon and the very wise native will go to 
the sideboard and select his own portions. There 
will sometimes be a hot dish of meat; cabbage and 
potatoes are the standard vegetables, the latter 
cooked without seasoning and generally poor. A 
lettuce salad and cheese, with stewed fruit or a 
tart, as they style a pastry something similar to an 
American pie, will complete the meal — at least for 
one who does not care for liquid refreshments, which 
may be had in great variety. Dinner in the smaller 
inns is usually served on the table d'hote plan. A 

377 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

very poor soup, a bit of stale fish — inexcusable in a 
country surrounded by the sea; an entree, usually 
a highly seasoned hotch-potch, or chicken and bacon 
— often a vile combination — followed by some 
heavy, indigestible "sweet," made the standard 
evening meal. We finally rebelled against this and 
had many a lively tilt with the manageress in our 
efforts to get a plain meal of eggs, tea, bread and 
butter and perhaps a chop. In some of the resort 
hotels our demands caused positive consternation and 
in more than one case had to be taken up with the 
proprietor himself. The difficulty was chiefly due 
to the disarrangement of the regime; the table d' 
hote meal was ready, though often stale and cold, 
and one waiter by following the fixed routine could 
serve a dozen people, while our simple wants usually 
disarranged the whole program, both in kitchen and 
dining room. It was rare indeed that a mutton 
chop could be had in the hotel; some one must be 
sent to the meat shop for it, and any such departure 
from the fixed order of things jarred the nerves of 
the whole establishment. It is only fair to state, 
however, that at some of the fine inns I have especi- 
ally mentioned there were notable exceptions to 
these generalizations. 

The rooms in the country hotel do not average 
very comfortable; the furniture is scant; they are 

378 



THE ENGLISH AND THEIR INSTITUTIONS 

poorly lighted — if not with candles, a single dim 
electric bulb or gas light serves the purpose; feather 
beds, with the odors that these give out in a damp 
climate, were not uncommon, though flat rebellion 
against them would often bring out the fact that 
there were others in the house. Bathing facilities 
were usually poor, a dirty bathroom or two serving 
the entire house. Not in a single case did we find 
running water in the rooms. But with all its draw- 
backs, the British provincial hotel will probably 
average as good as may be found in any country, 
and in motoring one has the option of going on to 
the next town if conditions seem too bad to be en- 
dured. Rates — to tourists — in the better class .ho- 
tels are not low; yet I would not call them exorbitant 
as a rule. Two shillings for breakfast, three for 
luncheon and four to six for dinner may be given 
as the average, while the charge for rooms can hardly 
be generalized. Five or six dollars per day per 
person should cover the hotel expense, including 
tips. 

And, speaking of tips, these aggregate no incon- 
siderable item ; a smaller individual amount will give 
satisfaction than in America, but the number of 
beneficiaries is so much greater that the total cost 
is more. Every servant who does anything for you 
or who ought to do anything, must have a fee — 

379 



ODD CORNERS OP BRITAIN 

porter, boots, chambermaid, waiter, head waiter, 
stable man, garage attendant, the man who cleans 
your car or brings you oil or petrol; in fact, every- 
one in the hotel except the proprietor or manageress 
expects from sixpence to half a crown for the day, 
as the case may be, and it does not pay to withhold 
it. One subjected to such exactions cannot but view 
with great concern the increase of the practice of 
tipping in America; should it ever become so prev- 
alent here at the much higher rate that the Ameri- 
can servant requires, traveling would be prohibitive 
except for millionaires. 



380 



Renyireryoyf 







(^=^. 



atinent. 




FRANCE ^ 

ANP Jj 

GERHAMY 



Outline map showing Author's route on Continent. 



la 






lA 



i S**"s! 












r> 



INDEX 



Abbeville, 7-8, 133. 
Abbotsford, 173-177. 
Aberdeen, 188-190. 
Achaius, King, 217. 
Ailsa Craig, 239. 
Alfred, King, 348-349. 
Alloway, 231-236, 250. 
Alsace, 59-60. 
Amboise, 32, 33, 35-36. 
Amiens, 129-133. 
Andover, 299. 
Angel Inn, Grantham, 149- 

150. 
Angers, 27-28. 
Austen, Jane, 308. 
Autun, 52-53. 
Avranches, 20-21. 
Awe, Loch, 225. 
Ayr, 230-231. 

B 

Baliol, John, 243-245. 
Ballachulish, 217-221, 223 
Ballantrae, 240. 
Ballater, 188. 
Balmoral Castle, 187-188. 
Barnes, William, 302-303. 
Barnstaple, 348. 
Barrhead, 230. 



Bartholdi, Frederic, 60. 
Basingstoke, 299. 
Bassenthwaite Water, 246, 

248-249. 
Bath, 350-351. 
Bayerischer-Hof, Fussen, 

66-67. 
Bayeux, 16-17. 
Beaugency, 40-41. 
Beethoven, Ludwig, 97. 
Benderloch Station, 221, 

223. 
Bennane Head, 240. 
Ben Nevis, 216, 217, 223. 
Berck-sur-Mer, 6-7. 
Berry Pomeroy Castle, 311- 

319. 
Bettyhill, 204-205. 
Beauly, 209. 
Bideford, 347-348. 
Bingen, 89-91. 
Bishop Auckland, 153-154. 
Blairgowrie, 185. 
Blandford, 300. 
Blois, 32, 36-40. 
Bonar Bridge, 194, 208. 
Bonn, 97. 
Bonseoours, 13-14. 
Bootle, 252, 257. 
Boppard, 93. 



381 



INDEX 



Bornhofe.n, 93. 
Boroughbridge, 147. 
Boulogne, 4-6, 133, 134 

135. 
Bowness, 259. 
Braemar, 182, 186-187. 
Bridport, 308. 
Broughton, 252, 257-258. 
Burns, Robert 181, 230- 

237. 
Burntisland, 182. 
By mess, 156. 
Byron, Lord, 96, 188. 



Caedmon, 162, 164, 168. 
Caen, 15-16. 
Caithness, 192 193. 
Calder Abbey, 253-254. 
Caledonian Canal, 210-212. 
Camelford, 346-347. 
Carlisle, 246. 
Carlton Hotel, Frankfort, 

86. 
Casino, The, Boulogne, 135 
Castle Douglas-, 241, 242. 
Castle Hotel, Conway, 278, 

280-281. 
Catcleugh, 156. 
Catherine de Medici, 34, 35 

36, 38. 
Catherine of Beraine, Lady, 

274. 
Cawdor Castle, 213. 
Charles I., 149, 267-268, 

270, 295-296. 



Charles Edward, Prince, 

152, 178-179, 212, 221- 

222. 
Chateaubriant, 26. 
Chaumont, 32. 
Chenonceaux, 32-34. 
Chester, 262-263. 
Chinon, 32, 52. 
Coblenz, 89, 94-96. 
Cockermou th> 248-251. 
Colmar, 60. 
Cologne, 96-99, 125. 
Constance, Lake, 62-64. 
Continental Hotel, Munich, 

77, 80-81. 
Conway, 263-264, 278-297. 
Cook, Capt., 160, 170-171. 
Cook & Sons, Thos., 69-70, 

210. 
Corbridge, 147, 155. 
Cosne, 46. 
Coutances, 20. 
Crinan Canal, 227. 
Cromarty Firth, 194. 
Cromwell, Oliver, 306. 
Culloden Moor, 212, 213, 

217, 222. 
Culzean Castle, 237. 
Cupar, 184. 

D 

Dalton, 259. 
Darlington, 153. 
Darmstadt, 84. 
Darnick, 177-178. 
Deganwy, 287. 
Denbigh, 264-278. 
Derwentwater, 247, 248. 



382 



INDEX 



Deutsches Haus, Friedrich 

shafen, 63-64. 
Devorgilla, Countess, 243- 

245. 
Diane of Poitiers, 33-34. 
Dickens, Charles, 301. 
Dijon, 48-53. 
Dingwall, 194. 
Dobson, H. J., 235-236, 

282. 
Donaueschingen, 61. 
Doncaster, 147, 151. 
Dorchester, 299, 300-307, 

350. 
Dornoch Firth, 194-195. 
Drachenfels, 96. 
Duarte, 225. 
Dudley, Robert, 269-270, 

277. 
Dumfries, 241, 242, 245. 
Dunderawe Castle, 228. 
Dunolly, 224, 225. 
Dunrobin Castle, 195, 197 
Dunure Castle, 237. 
Dunstaffnage, 225. 



Edinburgh, 178-182. 
Edward I., 269, 277, 293, 
Edward IV., 330, 332. 
Edward VII., 186, 301. 
Egremont Castle, 252-253 
Ehrenbreitstein, 95-96. 
Ehrenfels, 91. 
Elizabeth, Queen, 251, 269, 

283. 
Elreton, Henry de, 293. 
Endicott, John, 302. 



English Channel, 2, 4, 133, 

135. 
Escomb, 154. 
Eyre-Todd, George, 211, 

232. 
Exeter, 308, 309. 



Falkenburg Castle, 92. 
Feochan, Loch, 225-226. 
Folkestone, 3, 135. 
Fort Augustus, 212, 216. 
Fort William, 212, 216-218, 

222. 
Fowey, 321, 328-333. 
Francis I.. 35, 37. 
Francis II., 33, 35, 44. 
Frankfort, 84, 86-88. 
Freiburg, 60-61, 69. 
Friedrichshafen, 63-64. 
Furness Abbey, 258. 
Fussen, 66-68. 
Fyne, Loch, 227-228. 

G 

Gairlochy, 222. 
Gatehouse, 242. 
George, I., 156. 
George V., 343. 
Gerardmer, 57. 
Gibson, R. A., John, 289. 
Gilphead, Loch, 227. 
Girvan, 239. 
Glasgow, 229-230. 
Glastonbury, 350. 
Glen Affrick, 209. 
Glencoe, 221. 
Glengarry, 212. 



383 



INDEX 



Glenluce, 241-242. 
Goethe, 87, 103. 
Golspie, 195-198. 
Grantham, 149-151. 
Granton, 182. 
Grand Hotel de Franc© et 

de Londres, Avranchesy 

20-21. 
Granville, 20. 
Gray, 53. 
Great Glen, The, 193, 210- 

223. 
Great Orme's Head, 287. 
Great Torrington, 347. 
Guisborough, 153. 
Guise, 128. 

Guise, Duke of, 38-39. 
Gutenberg, Johann, 88-89. 

H 

Hardy, Thos., 303-305. 

307. 
Hatfield, 147-148. 
Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 356, 
Heidelberg, 84-85. 
Helston, 334. 
Hemans, Felicia, 272. 
Henderson, T. F., 205. 
Henley, W. E., 181. 
Henry II., England, 12. 
Henry III., France, 38-39. 
Henry, VIII., England, 162, 

260. 
Holsworthy, 347. 
Honfleur, 15. 
Hotel de France, Nevers, 

46-47. 



Hotel de France et d'Angle- 

terre, St. Quentin, 128- 

129. 
Hotel de la Croix d'Or, 

Sedan, 127. 
Hotel de Univers, St. Lo, 

17, 19. 
Hotel de Ville, Orleans, 

43-44. 

I 

Inverary, 228. 

Invercauld Arms, Braemar, 

186. 
Invergarry, 222. 
Inverlochy, 212, 216-217. 
Inverness, 193, 212-213. 
Iona, 225. 
Irvine, 230-231. 
Isle of Athelney, 348. 
Ivy Bridge, 319. 



James II., England, 349. 
James IV., Scotland, 242. 
Jeanne d'Arc, 10, 12-13, 41- 

44. 
Jedburgh, 147. 
Jeffreys, Judge, 303, 306- 

307, 350. 
John, King, 150. 
John O'Groats, 147, 199- 

202, 298, 336. 
Johnson, Dr. Samuel, 264, 

272. 
Jones, John Paul, 251. 



384 



INDEX 



K 

Karlsruhe, 84-85. 
Kendal, 259-261. 
Kennedy Castle, 241. 
Keswick, 246-248. 
Kilchimien, 216. 
Kilchurn, 225. 
Kilmartin, 227. 
Kilninver, 226. 
King's Arms, Dorchester, 

300-301. 
Kingsley, Chas., 348. 
Kintyre, 236. 
Kirkcaldy, 182. 
Kirkoswald, 237. 
Klopp Castle, 90. 
Knox, John, 179, 184. 



Lacy, Henry de, 266, 268. 

Lairg, 208. 

Lake District, 246-261. 

Lancaster, 262. 

Land's End, 263, 298, 336 

341. 
Lansallos Church, 327. 
Largo, 182-184. 
Larne, 241. 
LaSalle, 12. 
Launceston, 346-347. 
Leven, Loch, 219. 
Lindau, 64. 

Linnhe, Loch, 216, 219. 
Linskill, Mary, 167-170. 
Lion d'Or, Neufchatel, 9. 
Liskeard, 328. 
Lochinch, 241. 
Lochnagar, 188. 



Lochy, Loch, 216. 
Loire River, 29, 40. 
Lomond, Loch, 228-229. 
London, 3, 352, 354. 
Lo.ngwy, 125. 
Looes., 322. 
Lorelei, The, 92. 
Lostwithiel, 328-329. 
Loyal, Loch, 207-208. 
Ludwigshaven, 62. 
Luxemburg, 99, 101-103, 

125. 
Lyme Regis, 308-309. 

M 

Macbrayne Steamship Co., 

David, 212, 218. 
MacWhirter, R. A., John, 

65, 209. 
McCaig's Folly, Oban, 224- 

225. 
Manchester Ship Canal, 263. 
Marlborough, 352-353. 
Marxburg, 94. 
Mary Stuart, 33, 35, 44, 

179, 250-251. 
Maxwell-Scott, Hjon. Mrs., 

176. 
Maxwelton, 242. 
Mayence, 88-89. 
Melfort, Loch, 225, 227. 
Melfort, Pass of, 227. 
Melrose, 147, 173-174. 
Melvich, 204. 
Mezieres, 127. 
Millais, Sir John, 215. 
Millom, 257. 
Monmouth, Duke of, 306, 

307, 349. 
385 



INDEX 



Montgomery, James, 230. 
Montmedy, 127. 
Montreuil, 5-6, 134. 
Mont St. Michel, 20-24. 
Moran, Thos., 279-281, 337. 
Moselle River, 94, 96, 99, 

101. 
Mosely, Alfred, 371. 
Mouse Tower, The, 91-92 
Munich, 77-81. 
Mytton, Gen., 267-268, 270, 

278. 

N 
Ness, Loch, 214-216. 
Neufchatel, 8-9. 
Neustadt, 61. 
Nevers, 45-47. 
New Abbey, 242-245. 
Newburgh, 184. 
Newby Bridge, 259. 
Newton Abbot, 309. 
Newton, Sir Isaac, 151. 
Newton-Stewart, 242. 



o 

Oban, 210, 214, 223-225. 
Oberammergau, 61, 68-77 
Oberwesel, 93. 
Oich, Loch, 216. 
Orleans-, 40-45. 
Oswy, King, 161. 
Oxford, 298. 



Palace Hotel, 
188-190. 



Peel Tower, Darnick, 177- 

179. 
Penzance, 334-335, 341, 

347. 
Perth, 182, 184-185. 
Peter the Hermit, 132. 
Philipson, Major Robert, 

260-261. 
Pickering, 153. 
Pius VII., Pope, 46. 
Plas Mawr, 281-285. 
Plymouth, 318-319, 321, 

329. 
Polperro, 320-327. 
Pommard, 52. 
Pont Audemer, 15. 
Port Patrick, 237, 241. 
Preston, 262.. 
Probus, 333. 
Prun, 100. 
Puddletown, 300. 

Q 

Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur, 
332. 



R 

Ravenglass, 254-257. 
Rawnsley, Canon, 255. 
Reading, 352, 354. 
Remiremont, 55-57. 
Rennes, 25-26. 
Rheinfelsv 94. 
Rhine River, 59-60, 85, 89- 

96, 99-100. 
Rhinestein Castle, 91. 
Aberdeen, Rhoscomyl, Owen, 296. 
|Rhuddlan, 276-278. 

386 



INDEX 



Richard I., 11-12. 

Richard II., 294. 

Richard III., 150. 

Robin Hood, 160. 

Rolandseck, 96-97. 

Rouen, 8-15, 42. 

Royal Automobile Club, 1, 

3, 58, 68, 96, 147, 192, 

210. 
Royal Cambrian Academy, 

281. 
Rudruth, 334. 
Ruskin, John, 131, 133. 
Ryan, Loch, 240. 



St. Asaph, 270, 273, 276- 

277. 
St. Austell, 333. 
St. Benedict's Abbey, 216. 
St. Columba, 215-216. 
St. Columb Major, 346. 
St. Goar, 93-94. 
St. Hilda's Abbey, Whitby, 

161-164. 
St. Ives, 341. 
St. Lo, 17-20. 
St. Malo, 20-24. 
St. Mary's Church, Conway, 

289. 
St. Mary's Church, Whitby, 

157, 159, 162, 164-165, 

167. 
St. Michael's Mount, 22, 

334. 
St. Michel, Mont, 20-24. 
St. Peter's Church, Dor- 
chester, 302-303. 



St. Quentin, 128-129. 
St. Wulfram's Church, 

Grantham, 149-150. 
Salisbury, 299-300. 
Salisbury, Sir Wm., 267- 

268. 
Schonburg, 93. 
Schongau, 68. 
Scott, Sir Walter, 161, 162, 

173-179, 185, 238, 253, 

261, 296-297. 
Sedan, 127-128. 
Sedgemoor, 348-349. 
Se.nnan, 341. 
Shin, Loch, 208. 
Ship Inn, Fowey, 332-333. 
Skiddaw, 246. 
Sonneck Castle, 92. 
Southey, Robt., 247. 
Staff a, 225. 
Staines, 298, 299. 
Stanley, Henry M., 273-274. 
Stilton, 148. 
Stockton, 153. 
Stolzenfels Castle, 94. 
Stranraer, 240-241. 
Strathy, 204. 
Stuttgart, 81, 83-84. 
Sutherland, 191, 193. 
Sutherland Arms, Golspie, 

196-197. 
Sweetheart Abbey, 242-245. 



Tain, 194. 
Tamnay-Chatillon, 47-48, 

51. 
Taunton, 348, 350. 



387 



INDEX 



Thorwaldsen, Albert Bertel, 

89. 
Thurso, 203. 
Tongue, 203-207. 
Tongue Inn, 206-207. 
Totnes, 309-311, 318. 
Tours, 30-32, 35. 
Tow-Law, 154. 
Tremeirchion, 272. 
Treves, 96, 99, 101. 
Trouville-sur-Mer, 1 5 . 
Truro, 334, 345-346. 
Turnberry Castle, 237-239. 
Tuttlinge.n, 61-62. 
Tyne River, 155. 

u 

Ulm, 81-83. 
Ulverston, 259. 
Urquhart Castle, 215. 

V 

Vaile, P. A., 368. 
Vesoul, 53. 
Victoria, Queen, 186. 
Vinci, da, Leonardo, 36. 



w 

Warrington, 262-263. 
Wells, 350. 
Wesley, John, 338. 
Whitby, 151, 152-153, 157- 

172. 
Whitchurch, 272. 
Whitehaven, 251. 
White, Rev. John, 302. 
Wick, 198-199. 
Wigan, 262. 
Wilton-le-Wear, 147. 
Windermere, 259, 281. 
William I., England, 15, 17. 
William I., Germany, 95. 
William III., England, 310. 
Windsor Castle, 354. 
Woolsthorpe Manor, 151. 
Wordsworth, Wm., 229, 

249-250, 252-253, 257, 

260, 290. 

Y 

York, 151-152. 



Zeppelin, Count, 64. 



388 



SCOTLAhP 




Outline map showing Author's route- 



previous book — "In Unfamiliar England. 



SiivJ 



r 



VPi» 






Books by Thos. D. Murphy 

Three Wonderlands of the American West 

(Second Revised Edition) 

Splendidly illustrated with sixteen reproductions 
in colors from original paintings by Thos. Moran, 
N. A. and thirty-two duogravures from photo- 
graphs, also three maps. 180 pages, tall 8vo. 
decorated cloth. Price (boxed) $3.00 net. 

Carriage 30 cents extra. 

In this volume Mr. Murphy turns to our own coun- 
try and both text and pictures tell a story that may 
well engage the attention of any one interested in the 
beauty and grandeur of natural scenery. The book 
will come as a revelation to many who have had a 
vague notion that there may possibly be something 
worth seeing in America — after one has "done" Europe 
The author himself admits of such skepticism before 
he made the tour described in the book. He says, "I 
found myself wondering if there could be such an en- 
chanted land as Mr. Moran portrays — such a land of 
weird mountains, crystal cataracts and emerald rivers 
all glowing with a riot of coloring that seem more 
like an iridescent dream than a sober reality." 

A tour through the three wonderlands gives the 
answer — neither pen nor picture has ever told half the 
story. The sixteen illustrations from original paint- 
ings by Thomas Moran come nearer, perhaps, than 
anything excepting a personal visit in presenting to 
the eyes the true grandeur of the wonderlands des- 
cribed; and these are supplemented by thirty-two splen- 
did photographs, reproduced in duogravure and printed 
in a rich shade of brown. These features make the 
book one of the most notable ever coming from the 
American press, and it will serve the purpose of a 
guide to intending visitors, as well as a beautiful and 
appropriate souvenir for those who have visited one 
or all of the wonderlands so graphically portrayed. 



EMGLAMP 

WALES 




INDEX TO MAP OF ENGLAND AND WALES 






British Highways and Byways From a 
Motor Car 

(Third Edition) 

With sixteen illustrations in color from original 
paintings by noted artists, and thirty-two duogravures 
from English photographs, also descriptive maps of 
England and Scotland. 320 pages 8vo, decorated 

cloth, gilt top. Price (boxed) $3.00. 

An interesting record of a summer motor tour in 
Great Britain by an American who took his car with 
him and drove over some thousands of miles of British 
roads. The tour includes the cities, towns and villages, 
the solitary ruins, the literary shrines, every cathedra) 
in the Island and many of the quaintest and most 
fascinating out-of-the-way places not on the usual 
route of travel. A book of value to anyone contem- 
plating a tour of Britain or interested in the country 
and its people. 

In Unfamiliar England Witli a Motor Car 

(Second Edition) 

A new book on England, with incursions into 
Ireland and Scotland. Splendidly illustrated with 
sixteen reproductions in color from original paintings 
by noted artists, including Moran, Leader, Bow- 
man, Elias, Sherrin and others, and forty-eight duo- 
gravures from English photographs, illustrating 
many of the quaint places visited by the author. 
Also indexed map of England and Wales and map 

showing routes in Ireland and Scotland. 

A chronicle of the extensive wanderings by motor 
car of an American in rural England and a record of 
his discoveries in the out-of-the-way corners of the 
Island; also of delightful incursions into Scotland and 



Ireland. It is a story redolent with the summer beauty 
of the loveliest countryside in the world, and is replete 
with the tales of lonely ruins, quaint old churches, 
historic manor houses and palaces; it takes one through 
the leafy byways, into the retired country villages, and 
to many unfrequented nooks on the seashore. Particu- 
larly has the writer sought out the historic shrines in 
England of especial interest to Americans themselves, 
and his book is quite a revelation in this respect. The 
book has much of interest seldom noted in the litera- 
ture of travel and will please alike the actual traveler 
or the reader who does his traveling in an easy chair 
by his own fireside. 

Of Mr. Murphy's motor travel books dealing with 

Great Britain, the Royal Automobile Club Journal 

speaks the following commendatory words: 

England Through American Eyes 

A member of the Automobile Club of America, who 
is also an Individual Associate of the Royal Automo- 
bile Club, Mr. Thomas D. Murphy, has for several years 
past spent two or three months in touring in his car 
throughout the United Kingdom, and the result has 
been the publication in America of two books, one 
entitled, 'British Highways and Byways from a Motor 
Car/ and the other, 'In Unfamiliar England.' 

"In the former Mr. Murphy deals, in a most read- 
able a.nd attractive style, with many of the better 
known places of interest in our country; but in his 
book entitled 'In Unfamiliar England/ the author 
describes many out-of-the-way places which are totally 
unknown to the average English motorist, and even 
to people who pride themselves upon a knowledge of 
their own country. A short time ago the Touring 
Department received an inquiry from a member of the 
Club concerning an old building in the Eastern Coun- 
ties; wished to know the exact position of the place, 
also whether it was open to the public. A diligent 
search was made through all the usual books of refer- 
ence, and no trace of it could be discovered. As a 
last resource Mr. Murphy's book was consulted, and 
not only was the exact information required obtained, 
but in addition an excellent illustration of the build- 
ing was found. It seems curious that the Touring 
Department should have to consult a book written by 
an American in order to obtain information about an 
interesting spot in this country. 



"The writing of a motoring guide book is a very 
difficult matter, and the majority are either crammed 
with information and very unreadable, or else they are 
written in a very personal manner which becomes 
rather irritating to the person who wishes to obtain 
information from them. It is an exceedingly difficult 
matter to combine road information, historical facts, 
and interesting legends, i.n such a manner that the dry 
sections are not so numerous as to make the book 
wearisome and the lighter sections not so drawn out 
as to make the reading matter trivial. We should 
imagine that it is much easier to write an ordinary 
novel than a good guide-book of the readable descrip- 
tion. Mr. Murphy is one of the few people who can 
manage this difficult undertaking successfully." 



SENT POSTPAID ON RECEIPT OF 
PRICE BY 

L. C. PAGE & COMPANY 

BOSTON 

PUBLISHERS 



H 63-79 







<** 













^ « 'M 



*b V 




9* 








^ °JlBlr ^ 

<?>^s y.-^ii.% *.'£&"•' /•• 
■y% '38* /\ : -™- - «*•*% : -.^ 




V 




+ o 



<A G o « o 













C u * 







* aV ^ » ©lis * ^ & o vJCnk * a^ ^ • u 



<> *' •. 






'V 




<. ♦*T7T* ,0 



^ 





c° v ..' 



.^ f /\ : -w" ^ v % w /\ W/ * 




*b V 



*b V 



"\ 



